Whenever I am hungry and I'm near Park Avenue
I listen to my stomach and it tells me what to do
And it draws me to where there's donair in the air
And thousands of bouzoukis play "Acropolis adieu."

Welcome to my restaurant, it's authentically Greek
My name is Popadopoulos, but you can call me Nick.
You'll be glad when you've had what is in this pita bread.
I hope you don't mind garlic or it's going to make you sick.

I am not very picky, souvlaki and tsatziki
And a dessert of sticky goo
And when I want to lose-oh, all of my worried blues-oh
I'll have a round of Ouzo too

My clients find bouzouki music always cast a spell
And though it's unfamiliar they like it very well
Though it's not to my taste, so no money I waste
I only have one tape but with Greek music, who can tell?

Sometimes Nick will use the language of his native land.
You'll hear him shouting orders out, or are they reprimands?
Who can tell what he yells at his anxious personnel?
It's just as well his customers will never understand.

The donair's rich and creamy, no one stares each time you slurp
There's so much food upon your plate, you'll eat until you hurt.
You can sit, you can grin while it dribbles down your chin
And you'll remember eating it every time you burp.