Grine kuzine (Green cousin)
My cousin from the old country came over here.
She was beautiful as gold, the “greenhorn.”
Her cheeks were rosy like blood oranges;
her feet were just begging to dance.
She skipped instead of walking;
she sang instead of speaking.
Happy and merry was her demeanor.
Such was my cousin.
I went to the lady next door,
who has a little millinery store.
I got my greenhorn cousin a job there —
so long live the Golden Land!
Many years have since past.
My cousin has turned into a wreck.
She slaved away for many years
until nothing was left of her.
Under her blue, beautiful eyes
black bags have appeared.
The cheeks, those ruddy oranges,
have aged and lost their greenhorn glow.
Nowadays, when I meet my cousin
and I ask her, “How are you, greenhorn?”
She answers me with a crooked expression:
“Columbus’s land can go to hell!”