In a church parking lot, devoid of all shade,
near a playground where now only ghost children played,
We gradually gathered for beer, fun, and trail,
And I volunteered to record the tale.
I didn’t. And that night remains a mystery
Lessons were lost to the anus of history.
Our noble hare, this did frustrate
So rather than pregnant, better be late
We circled, we sang, Fake Bake called us On-Outted,
Soon into a creek. On-on was shouted.
Slippery, treacherous, unstable stones
Then up to grassy, flat, tree-dappled zones,
Then down to the creek again and up to some tracks.
Hash halts and chick checks but still no climax --
No Beer Stop in sight. No water. No rest.
We began to hallucinate phantom ice chests.
On our hands and our knees, we crawled up steep rocks
Covered in poison ivy, thank G for shiggy socks.
Up hill and up hill, trail never went down,
just like your mom, through that South County nightmarish treadmilly town.
At last, the apex of Oakville, an apartment complex,
Lacking only two hashers (FRBs, drag your checks),
There was water and beer and a pool and a chair!
Cannonballs, resting, children to scare!
After the Beer Stop, it was mostly on-in
Though some stopped for snow-cones, courtesy of a friend.
Exhausted, exhilarated, sweaty, and mad
Itchy, and tipsy, and stupid, and glad
Trail was so shitty, but you half-minds know
That is the real reason that we all go.
A secret about Hummer’s poop (It’s hush-hush)
It comes out like a flower that she has to flush
As for the hashshit, of course Hummers won
for pooping on poop to improve the smell of our run.
Yours forever in the bond of hashing,
Plot My G-Spot