A Yankish lout remains a lout,
Though set upon Europa’s shore;
Where wisdom reigns and truth bears out,
He shows his arse, and nothing more.

Thus on old Rus’ the word was laid,
By Monomakh, with brow full grim:
“O Lord, preserve us, be our aid,
From Lach, from Mosk, and Yankish whim.”

The Lach, though blind, is sly and cold,
The Muscovite—a strumpet’s breed;
The Yank shall pledge in manner bold,
Then foul thy broth with base misdeed.