Once upon a Sunday morning when I woke up, sick and groaning 

Gagging, Stained by free-flow wine and vomit from the night before

As I rose, my head still thumping, Suddenly I head a jumping,

As of naked hashers humping—humping in the room next door.

“Tis some hashers,” I wondered,” “bumping uglies in the room next door.”

“Some shellfish hasher smashing on a local whore

Or getting nasty on the kitchen floor. “

 

Distinctly, I remember it was in the dark December

And each male Hashers’ member shrivelled in the frozen air

The M’s were joined by Short & Orgy; Blister Fister joined the clergy

Intoned a baritone liturgy, and blessed the trail and lazy hares

Through a shop the hashers stumbled; and in windy parks they tumbled

Past Pickle’s house (so humble!), followed by the Chinese stares

Followed through the hutongs by bewildered Chinese stares

While the Hashers said “The Hares!”

 

Then I heard the half-minds choking—coughing from the ceaseless smoking

Of Chinese chimneys churning out polluted air.

The hares, it seems,  were bad at chalking—Half the Runners switched to walking

And Dry Hole started mocking the Russian guy we lost somewhere

While Bearded Clam’s plastic stocking became a Baijiu-sprayer

While the hashers said, “The Hares!”

  

When the sun started sinking, the circle kept on drinking

And each hasher kept on thinking “How I wish that I had stayed in bed.”

The circle started chanting, and Blister started ranting,

Cursing every hasher that didn’t wear green or red

Cursing all the hashers till a rubber cock filled his mouth instead

Quoth the Hashers, “On your head!”