by Bob Dylan



Three angels up above the street,

Each one playing a horn,

Dressed in green robes with wings that stick out,

They've been there since Christmas morn.

The wildest cat from Montana passes by in a flash,

Then a lady in a bright orange dress,

One U-Haul trailer, a truck with no wheels,

The Tenth Avenue bus going west.

The dogs and pigeons fly up and they flutter around,

A man with a badge skips by,

Three fellas crawlin' on their way back to work,

Nobody stops to ask why.

The bakery truck stops outside of that fence

Where the angels stand high on their poles,

The driver peeks out, trying to find one face

In this concrete world full of souls.

The angels play on their horns all day,

The whole earth in progression seems to pass by.

But does anyone hear the music they play,

Does anyone even try?