When you judge life with a glance of an old theatre critic,
Wishing once again to face it with young poet's roaring mind,
When each shot tastes like a battle cry of Polish cavalry,
And you look at each glass as the modernist's last masterpiece,

When your friends and enemies join to play your favourite song,
And you approach people with a cartoon's hero charming grace,
When you wake up naked and confused, yet filled with hope and joy,
And you call your morning lover by the name of Tvigwychsin,

When you judge life with a glance of an old theatre critic,
Wishing once again to face it with young poet's roaring mind,
When each shot tastes like a battle cry of Polish cavalry,
And you look at each glass as the modernist's last masterpiece,

When your friends and enemies join to play your favourite song,
And you approach people with a cartoon's hero charming grace,
When you wake up naked and confused, yet filled with hope and joy,
And you call your morning lover by the name of Tvigwychsin,