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