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