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The angel rides with hunch-backed children, poison oozing from his engine |
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Wieldin' love as a lethal weapon, on his way to hubcap heaven |
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Baseball cards poked in his spokes, his boots in oil he's patiently soaked |
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The roadside attendant nervously jokes as the angel's tires strokes his precious pavement |
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The interstate's choked with nomadic hordes |
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in Volkswagen vans with full running boards dragging great anchors |
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Followin' dead-end signs into the sores |
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The angel rides by humpin' his hunk metal whore |
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Madison Avenue's claim to fame in a trainer bra with eyes like rain |
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She rubs against the weather-beaten frame and asks the angel for his name |
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Off in the distance the marble dome |
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reflects across the flatlands with a naked feel off into parts unknown |
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The woman strokes his polished chrome and lies beside the angel's bones. |