Pravda

I've waited through the wars of winter I've watched the cherry blossoms bloom I cannot wait here any longer I'm leaving at the rising of the moon I know what lies beneath Manhattan I know who's buried in Grant's Tomb I wonder if they'll wait a while to clear away my crocodile I'm leaving at the rising of the moon They always ask me about Pravda It's just the Russian word for "truth" Your consciousness is not my problem 'Cause when I come home, it won't be home to you Your uncle Henry lived in Moscow Your aunt Ludmilla lived there too Irina grew up in Wisconsin I'm leaving at the rising of the moon The final moments in a doorway (the final moments in a doorway) The sacred light of afternoon (the sacred light of afternoon) Something starts to shake the leaves, you tug upon your t-shirt sleeves And shiver 'til the rising of the moon They always ask me about Pravda It's just the Russian word for "truth" Your consciousness is not my problem 'Cause when I come home, it won't be home to you I took the family balalaika The strings would never stay in tune I hung it up by the piano I'm leaving at the rising of the moon I had a job once in Penn Station (I had a job once in Penn Station) Down at a tie shop called "Tiecoon" (down at a tie shop called "Tiecoon") Every time my shift began, I'd see that quiet businessman I'm leaving at the rising of the moon They always ask me about Pravda It's just the Russian word for "truth" Your consciousness is not my problem And I hope you know your brain's not bulletproof