And so I must begin my tale of woe
Of people who their fate they never sewed.
Of Russians who had lived their life complete
With orchards and with no one to compete.

It all starts when they come back from abroad.
No money did they have, their horse unshod.
And so they had to face an awful choice
One which an answer they would never voice.

To sell, or keep the question was then posed.
But in the shadows lurked a hope that rose.
A loan from some old aunt I hardly knew
To keep the sky from turning from its blue.

They gave their cash to people on the street
And so their waste in all things was replete
And once again were they to make their pick
And once again did they still end up sick.

And so to magic did the fam