A little bit of this, a little bit of that.
A pot, a pan, a broom, a hat.
Someone should have set a match to this place years ago.
A bench, a tree.
So, what's a stove? Or a house?
People who pass through Anatevka don't even know they've been here.
A stick of wood. A piece of cloth.
What do we leave? Nothing much.
Underfed, overworked Anatevka.
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Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?
Intimate, obstinate Anatevka,
Where I know everyone I meet.
Soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place,
Searching for an old familiar face
I belong in Anatevka,
Tumble-down, work-a-day Anatevka.
Dear little village, little town of mine.