| Lyrics: | 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.
Only
Anatevka.
Anatevka, Anatevka.
Underfed, overworked Anatevka.
Where else could
Sabbath be so sweet?
Anatevka, Anatevka.
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
From Anatevka.
I belong in Anatevka,
Tumble-down, work-a-day
Anatevka.
Dear little village, little town of mine |
