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.