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!”
