Crapülinski and Waschlapski, 
not Poles but "Polacks," 
Fight for freedom 
against Moscow's tyranny.

They fight courageously and escape eventually 
and "luckily" to Paris,
Staying to live, because 
to die for the Fatherland is sweet.

Like Achilles and Patroklus, 
David and his Jonathan,
These same Poles loved each other, 
with friendly kisses: «Kochan! Kochan!»

Neither annoyed the other, 
but stayed true and honest friends
For they were quite alike, these two --
not Poles but "Polacks."

They lived in the same parlor, 
and slept in the same bed;
A louse and a soul 
outdoing each the other.

Dining in the same pub, 
that neither would mourn,
each for the other would pay 
when no one would pay for them both.

Also the very same Henriette 
washed for these two proud Poles;
Warbling along, she came every month 
to collect the washing.

Oh yes, they had real washing, 
for each had two shirts,
because they were so alike, these two,
not Poles but proud "Polacks."

They sat these days by hearths 
where flames flickered cozily,
while outside were night and snowstorms 
and the sounds of hackney cabs.

From a great bowl of punch
(understandably un-sugared,
unspoiled and undiluted) 
they have already quaffed.

A melancholy would creep 
into their souls;
their faces would moisten with tear drops, 
and Crapülinski spoke:

«If only I had here in Paris 
my bearskin, that dear sleeping jacket
and the cat-fur night cap 
that remain in the fatherland!»

Waschlapski replied: 
«Oh, you are a true countryman, 
thinking always of our homeland, 
the bearskin and cat-fur night cap.

Poland is not yet lost. 
Our nation's wives who delivered, 
and our nation's children who do the same, 
will bless us with heroes,

Heroes like the hero Sobieski, 
like Schlemufski and Uminiski,
Eskrokewitsch, Schubiaski 
and the great Eselinski.»