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