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