The Hashers Tale
(with apologies to Chaucer)


Run #748 - July 28, 1997


The hour drew nigh, alarums blew,
Strange names around the circle flew.
And Margarita, (the new boot) heard,
Of cryptic marks, and ribbons lurid.

Then off we went, to crest of hill,
Where trail lost, the pack did mill,
'til quavering voice, far in the east,
Cause all the Frops their search to cease.

On On, On Down, past gnawed up sticks,
And (says SQ), "no lack of pricks".
Now stumped by meadow, the pack stands still,
"Are You?" "Checking" from dale and hill.

"No marks that way!" cries out Neon,
"Cept this one here" "Oh that, On On!"
To flowing stream, but knee deep yet
It did leave Thong Que "completely wet"

And one dismayed by waters mirk,
By far off bridge the wet does shirk,
Whilst Goldie, Shack Shock, and Baby,
Do vainly search for bridging tree.

A second stream, (this over hip),
Now gets the one who first did skip.
Blue Balls who disdained first streams pink
Does now complain of "shrinkie dink".

Another stream, we crash across,
But there's no trail, the pack is lost.
"The Hare's not crossed!", back the pack goes,
"Got you again" Ptoouie crows.

On, On, and On, a good long run.
With sticks and dips, the footing's fun.
And some do run, Lakey strolls,
Tiny Bubbles looks for "Beaver Holes"

Another swim, to island bare,
"It must be false, that wily hare".
In just a sec, one trio's gone,
"Come back you bastards, this way's on!"

The island's last, then only lake,
Whatever way can trail take.
There's no more land, the end is near,
But wait, what's this, "The Beer Check's here!"

The nectar's gone, in just a flash.
"Collect up those cans, let's leave no trash"
Now back to land, and back On Up
We need some more, in bigger cup!

Last comes that trio, in dusty file,
Whining, whining, all the while.
"You're bastards all!", cries out the mob,
To Whalewanker, Dreary, and Lapdog.

Back at the On In, voices raise,
And offer Hares glasses of praise.
Ptoouie, That, On In, all three,
Drink them down to song off-key.

New boot Margarita makes hers short shrift
Standing there in hole-y shift.
Lapdog's sad story 'bout Wankers eye
Allowed that trio glasses high.

ACD and Batman drank a cup,
'Cause Batman "pushed" her all the way up.
And one to Whiteballs, 'cause he's a gent.
That small glass was quickly spent!

[Someone had got the EH3 chair.
Whiteballs took it back up there.
They punished him, that lowly pack,
So Knobby stole that chair right back!]

Ian got up and did imbibe,
He'd said "The Hash is one strange tribe!"
So for a name it had to be,
That Ian now is Fa-cow-ie!

Scubie just bashed, Hash Shit in tow.
(His kids played soccer, don't cha know)
But Kingshit hid that icon high
And for that act did drink it dry.

My tale is done, (it's gone too long)
And thus does Hopless cry ON ON!


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