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  1. Anastasia

From the recording Best Laid Plans & Anastasia

Lyrics

Anastasia was cold as she fell from her throne she was haggard and weary and drenched to the
bone she was throwin up curses like flares in the bolshevik night
the palace floors burned where her feet touched the ground and the jesters quit jesting, the
cavalries drowned and the reds couldn’t stand to face the whites of her eyes
Anastasia I’m rolling down your driveway for my fix, you said my lines are getting old and my smile is counterfeit and if you didn’t know better you’d swear I was planning my way out
I said darling I fear that this house’ll be your doom and she invited me in to clear the ghosts from
the room and she whispered to me about diamonds in her dress

Anastasia, I’m throwing rocks up at your window counting stars
writing postcards from the eastern front for the daughter of the czar
darling I can’t let you burn in Petrograd

The halls were all damned where Rasputin walked he had rags on his shoulders and eyes full of
salt he said Nikolai brother if I go you go too
they gave him a cocktail of vodka and cyanide and washed it down with led and icy waters in the
night, and sure enough hell was crossing east of the Rhein
She said her father was back again and this time for blood he’d brought a truck full of bastards
spitting chaw in the mud, they had tattoos and switchblades and lawyers to cover their tracks
I said I know you wouldn’t lie but they’re probably all drunk as shit ‘cmon let’s ride into the sunset before this old engine kicks, we’ll steal some coffee from the mobile soon as we get on
the road

Anastasia, I’m throwing rocks up at your window from the street
writing postcards from the eastern front for the daughter of the king
trying to make sense of these questions that you wove into these sheets

and I’d rather face the firing squad
than lose the Duchess Romanov…
Anastasia, I’m throwing rocks up at your window counting stars
writing postcards from the eastern front for the daughter of the czar
I can’t let you burn in Petrograd
Anastasia, I’m outside your doorway most mornings losing sleep
writing postcards from the trenches for the daughter of the king
trying to make sense of these questions you wove into these sheets