ODE TO CAPITAL
by Nip-L-Peenk

There once were strong runners, drinkers were thee
Who had access to good beer, and premises to pee
Poorly treated were they, so hard done by and right
A break from Mother’s tit, came into the light

They started a hash club, Mad Max was the head
Run on a Monday, while everyone led
Not just the Long Cocks, but front bums too
And kids on occasions, when holidays ensue

Cheap beer for all, they shout from the tops
And runs that can be walked, or halted at stops
Circles of wit, steadfast and true
And without all of a lie, a pewter of brew

Still on-on Mondays they plod, weary old foes
The pack enlarged by visitors, on‑on throes
1830 or thereabouts, from pubs and real homes
The pack at the On Ons, begin all their roams

So when in Capital Cuntry, come see us do
And hash with the pack, that sees Hash as you do
Enjoy the Full Moon, or while crossing the Ditch
Options galore, to provide that scritch

ODE TO DEAD PRICK
by Handle

THERE ONCE WAS A HASHER
WHO LIKED TO BE BRASHER
BLOWFLY WAS HIS NAME
CEILINGS WERE HIS GAME

ALONG CAME IS FIFTIETH RUN
WHICH HE THOUGHT WOULD BE GREAT FUN
UP WENT THE PRICK
TO BE DOWNED IN A TICK

OVER SHOULDER TO WET THOSE BEHIND
BUT WHAT DID HE FIND
THE PRICK WAS NOT LIGHT
AND HIS GRIP WAS NOT TIGHT

SLIPPED FROM HIS HAND
AND WHERE DID IT LAND?
ON THE END OF THE TABLE
SO THE PRICK WAS NOW A FABLE

NOW BLOWFLY IS NO MORE
JUST BURIED IN LORE
TO ALL A NEW NAME DID DAWN
AND DP (DEAD PRICK) WAS BORN

ODE TO KNOB
by Handle

KATHRYN WAS HER NAME,
THE LADY OF FLANAGANS WAS SHE
AMIDST THE HASH SHE DARE SAT
WHERE KNOB WAS HER GAME
HE DROPPED HIS TROU
TO BARE HIS ALL
AND OH WHAT A CATCH HE MADE