I'm just an undercover agent in some god-forsaken place
I'm looking in the corners, I leave without a trace
I've read your tawdry bullet points and your face is in the frame
I've got you as the target and I'm taking aim
It's in the shooting gallery where liaisons are made
That's where I justify my salary and I always get paid
I've got a pistol in my pocket, I've got a holster full of lies
And I'm just paid to sock it between your eyes
It's in this shooting gallery amongst the blood, sweat and the tears
That I've burnt off a few calories down the years
And I've held you under surveillance from the corner of my eye
And it's in this shooting gallery where bullets fly
Where I'm just an undercover agent in some worn-out seedy coat
Marking out the territories and taking note of some movement in the shadows
Of a rat-hole in the road
And it's in this shooting gallery where I load
It's in this shooting gallery where cartridges are spent
That's how I justify my salary or at least I think that's what you meant
It's in this shooting gallery where I pick up the threads of your ugly little tapestry
Yeah, I think that's what you said
And it's in this shooting gallery where you justify the lies
In this shooting gallery with the spies