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 by on 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