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And If It's Not True

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Most of my evenings I spend on my own, listening to Spanish guitars.
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Next year I say Barcelona for me; late nights in dark Spanish bars.
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Sipping my whisky, then having one more, and smoking my black cigarettes.
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Asking Dolores to come home with me, knowing I'll have no regrets.


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And if it's not true, what harm can it do?
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I know what I know, I go where I go.

Sometimes on Sundays I stroll through the park down by the carousel,
Hearing the children ride round in delight to a tune by my old friend Ravel.
One that he sang for me one rainy night as I walked with him down by the Seine.
How I love Paris, the music, the fun - I go there again and again.

And if it's not true, what harm can it do?
I know what I know, I go where I go.

And if it's not true, what harm can it do?
I know what I know, I go where I go.

Ah, the impressionists up at the Met, I visit whenever I can.
It's bonjour to Vincent, bravo to Henri but the one that I love is Cezanne.
And over his shoulder I silently watch as the small canvas bursts into flame.
We stop at the inn on the way back to town, where the old men drink wine with their games.

And if it's not true, what harm can it do?
I know what I know, I go where I go.

And if it's not true, what harm can it do?
I know what I know, I go where I go.

(Words and music by Tom Paxton, 2008)

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