A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
Oh conditions are vernal, unfit for walrus,
And our three HRs: sepulchrous,
Our sweaters all lack fashion,
let’s go hashin’
let’s go hashin’
let’s go hashin’!
Santas: Wowwie; PG
Raindeer: Bushy, CC, CoCo, Flossil, Jif, Spike, Climbin’ U., V. Kim, Bridesmaid, V. Anise, J. Christen, V. Nora, OCD
The raindeer gathered at the Creeker
The day could have truly been much bleaker
Inside gathered for a glass
They compared their outfits (all of class)
Gathered they outside
(Bushy & Kim: Late? Woe betide.)
Off they set, up the slipp’ry mess
Bridesmaid was sent upon a quest
Cock the Elder
Found some flour
And down they went, alas.
The Reverse 7 found the pack ahoo;
So sad! T’was true!
Ithaca’s Superfund site was lacking brew.
Around they went back up the hill
when by the fence
Baster found some underpants!
With mucky muck and scurvy skeeze,
Wowwie caught them ill-at-ease.
On and on and up they coursed
the pavement trail showed no remorse
so down U. Ave. the hashers exerted
and up dear old Ezra’s Lane the hares reversed it.
In leaves by Wait’s last Earthly rest-place
They found a mysterious beer-place
‘Midst painted loafers nailed to a tree
they cheered and caroused and gamboled with glee.
[Spike, from the FRB pack, for a moment was free!)
After a moment to chit-chat and refresh and foment
(Climbin’s moments in Oz were of comment)
we were off ‘cross the course and then up it
to Stewart we ran and then down again, confound it
So a while we went, past stones of times long departed
(for the first of many times, I farted)
through a shot-check, we raced
thanks to the rain,
said the hares, so embarrassed
Now uncovered was the prize, under leaves but no lock
we ascended the rise, to drink with Woodcock
Woodcock was loved, by his grave it was quite clear.
Under trees old and pine, there we enjoyed not beer
– but shots! Tastes of orange and fruit,
t’was to us made quite plain–this trail is a hoot!
Afterwards then it was all down towards the city
Flossil failed to trip PG–though truly this act wasn’t real bad–
I bet you thought I was going to rhyme with sh*tty.
When what to our wondering eyes did appear
Were some brand new chalk marks!
“Huh?” said the raindeer.
The chalk marks were chalk
Not flour, after talk.
The chalk, it would seem
was not red, was not green.
It was white, it was white,
this ain’t right, this ain’t right.
“Ain’t no other hash in town!”
they said with a frown.
But up they went
determined, not spent.
North side of Cascadilla.
Follow pavement? Makes me ill-a.
More arrows? Makes us curious.
Erased true trail? Makes PG furious.
Blanked-out hash mark?
Something’s up, who’s the nark?
Thanks to the hares, not to be outdone
They helped guide us on our brave beer run.
Back amongst the graves we flew
Seeking beer, having fun, stretching out, what a crew!
We found it! We relaxied.
And talked of strange marks and — what’s that taxi?
After a moment to figure that it was no alarm,
it was determined that the guy meant no harm.
A horn! A horn! But hark! But hark!
‘Tis not an angel… could it be ’tis our nark?”
A strange horn sounded
The hash was confounded
So Baster took off (assurance is his function)–
a hasher, of course, just has to have gumption.
So on, so up, towards the source of the clamor
this hasher ran to see what was the matter.
When–who is that? With a shape of a clothespin,
in blue and grey… hey, is that Trojan?
Oh Trojan! Oh Trojan!
You feisty old bastard!
“Just in town,” then, your story, you’ve mastered?
“Well then,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye,
“three drink stops and you’ve all managed to stay dry?
Tell me then, where is the on-in, just ’cause
on a day like today, it’s good to take pause?”
D’erections were given, discreetly and quick
And back to the hash, the messenger flew like Saint Nick.
…by the way, I should add
another tale of things that make Wowwie mad.
I came across once again, amongst the fields of remembrance,
a lovely pair of white and blue men’s underpants.
Wowwie was caught once again, worried about chlamydia
while the rest of us succumbed to a worthy bout of honest hysteria.
Poor Wowwie, she works so hard on her sexy abs,
but now she’s got some gonosyphaherpacrabs.
(Haven’t you ever wanted to rhyme things like that?
It’s okay, I understand–many wanna hit me with a bat).
On back we went, down Stewart and down Buffalo
but an A-to-B? That’s tuff-alo!
But yet, chez Parker House, she has a certain charm
among the pack, there was no alarm.
Soon fire and song and beer did flow
and we saw settle upon the pack a truly healthy glow.
Friendships rekindled, and new songs brought out
tales of braveur, of travel, of adventure they did tout.
Worst sweater? Though indeed that was the idea,
dear Spikey looked like a citizen of the Crimea.
With “bedroom chic” clad for his trunks
and matching hat? These elves have spunk!
Downs-downs came and to songs they danced,
by the way, I love hashes with my penguin pants.
When lo the sunset drew things to a close,
and quite a few wanted to remove their clothes
…I’ll take a moment to contemplate
‘midst what’s in my mug and on my plate
that those of us who inspire and elate
are a part of things that make life great.
I learned one thing this eve that serves to remind us all of fickle fate
For without the vivacity born of this running and ale,
many of us would not know the joy that is trail.
To run with half-minds is sweetness, truly;
we have great times of fun, however unruly.
And here’s to another one — Bushy!
She’s off to Trinidad! We’ll all miss her tushy.
For this reason and all others, may our merry little band
Raise our glasses in toast, to the hash and to a gland.
Dear Trojan, the man, diverter of trails
clever fellow, crafty wanker, enjoyed plenty of ales
is, thanks to strength born of the hash and hard as nails,
beaten cancer, it seems–the strongest of males.
And so now we depart!
Cheers, Trojan! Cheers Gispert!
Cheers to all who have ever known the pleasure
of running trail, of making time, in true and merry measure
for friends! Some are old, some are new–
we are hashers, we are true blue.
We are hashers, through and through
Are we piss-pots? No we’re not!
We will have fun ’til it’s time to rot!
~MB