Sonia, my sauerkraut maiden, hates me.
What must I have said, I can’t imagine.
I shop the market every Saturday–
she treats me like a head of bad cabbage.
Sonia, oh Sonia, the garden, your booth!
My, how you’ve ripened! But you’re too fickle,
for a foolish man fermented in truth–
to pluck your pumpkin or bite your pickles.
Yet, such a flirt, why won’t you wink at me?
Me, who has a cabinet full of kraut,
in spite your brazen personality.
But enough, enough, what is this about?
Sonia, my Sonia, where is your mother?
If I weren’t so old, I swear, I’d tell her.