Three-gun Mojo

From the deep of our guts

To the last drop of sweat

From the end of the alley where the red lights are on

To the white of our bones

and the bottom of these bottomless reveries

From the freeze of the frame soaked in colours and names

On our hands and our knees, standing tall on our feet

To the boreal skies

Here's my knife on the table but they can't see my hands

To the real north pole with a sun inside

Neither dead nor drunk

Making sense isn't fun

Up the cold cold river

Solomon the salmon

I got a three and three ones

Got a target-shaped face

In my mortar an ace

And the place I came from chained to my back

I would never trust you,

you must never forget the things you've seen on your own

Away from cities and crowds

Along the 290

Going down

White like a Pope

Even when the Pope is black like a Bible