New York was full of towers,

Still is and forever will,

and old tired eateries

Hold the ground below them still.

Pizza in little Italy,

Noodles in China town.

Pierogies in a Polish palace,

the patrons scarf all down.

So it's here that our man, our man,

With tired thumb and fading tan,

Went to find his Soviet soup

of boiled water and purple beet root.

He tried a dive in an alley,

and a one-of-a-kind hole-in-the-wall,

He sampled a tea-cup portion,

Gosh darnit! He tasted them all!

But everywhere he looked and sipped

Not a thing could quite compare

to the borsch of his dear babushka,

Red scarves tied in her hair.

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Borsch is a Russian soup, by the way. ; )

updated Aug 26 by missaleatoire