Fiddler On The Roof

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, whats a stove? Or a house?
People who pass through Anatevka dont even know theyve 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 Ill 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
[ Anatevka Lyrics ]