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
