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
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