HASHERS CAN

In Wheelers End did Wycombe Hash meet
A stately group of pleasure seekers decree:
Where shiggy, the sacred river, ran
Through puddles measureless to man
Down to a sunless 'On Inn'.
So once five point three miles of fertile ground
With tracks and paths were girdled round:
And there were gardens sodden from all the rain
Where Hashers went past, like a silhouetted human train;
And here were tracks, that Roger said were as ancient as the hills,
Enfolding isolated flour splashes of misery.

But oh! that deep romantic 'on on' call was shouted,
Down the green hill where Moose did moose and others copied!
A muddy place! from where Audrey's house was to be seen.
As e'er beneath a starry night was haunted 
By Wycliffe women wailing on finding shiggy!
And from the chasm, Rebecca's shoe was pulled,
As if this shiggy in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty 'who's checking' was forced:
Amid the Hashers half intermittent bursts
We went past Hill Farm and on to Cadmore End,
Speeding the pace after our slow relaxed start.
Three miles meandering with a lazy motion
Through wood and dales, the sacred trail ran, 
Then reached the long short split,
And across the road the shorts were let go:
And amid the tumult slower Hashers heard from far,
Ancestral voices saying this way to the bar!

The shadows from the torches of the runners
Floated across the damp night air;
Where was heard the calls of 'are you'
From all those looking for the illusive flour.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny white dome, a blob of flour!

A damsel with a stressed ankle,
In a terrible scream I heard:
It was Michelle, an MA student,
And with her swollen ankle, she shouting in pain,
Rolling around the long grass, she went lame.
Sir Alan de d'four came to her side
And with the scribe, helped her to glide.
To find the pub was near delight, for we would win,
On Inn, On Inn!

I would change before I entered the pub 
And leave my muddy shoes by the entrance tub.
That country pub! Those inviting ales!
And all who heard, should see the hares were there,
And all should cry, Well done! Good run!
Gerry's flashing eyes, Andy's floating hair!
For they brought the pack home in time to stare,
And for Jo to get her 300 run, new evening wear.
Weave no more checks around for now,
And close yours eyes with Hashers dread,
For they on crispy chips have fed,
And drank the beer of the Peacock?