"He's not a hard man to track. Leaves dead men wherever he goes..."
After spit petroleum, the tall elevation of the outlaw is standing in front a piano on the dusty valley.
Like a guapo attacks in raid to kill the comancheros, the meanest riff-raff passing to Mendoza...
"Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy...", he said...
Like a guapo attacks in raid to kill the comancheros, the meanest riff-raff passing to Mendoza...
"Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy...", he said...
High over the Meseta Madre, the silvery water of Rio Santo sanforize the 444 indian nations.
(There's like an anglo-saxon carnival with mexican fiddles badly played: a desert's ritual for the man who...spits petroleum onto the cracked ground...)...
The cactuses are sicilian and the blue sky is a photoshop's scheme that announce that...the beautiful places are mortal...
...I said...
Riding.
The guapo sinks himself into a noisy-horizontal evening's sun.
...Yellow. Like Buñuel in Biarritz.
(There's like an anglo-saxon carnival with mexican fiddles badly played: a desert's ritual for the man who...spits petroleum onto the cracked ground...)...
The cactuses are sicilian and the blue sky is a photoshop's scheme that announce that...the beautiful places are mortal...
...I said...
Riding.
The guapo sinks himself into a noisy-horizontal evening's sun.
...Yellow. Like Buñuel in Biarritz.
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