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(One Of The Last Gentlemen Only Hashes in The World)

An Epi Hashers Cautionary Tale!

The pure Cyprus air came clear to his lungs
And the shout of ‘On On’ from twenty odd tongues
The sound of their cry was a joy to his ear
And he thought once again as to why he was here
In three miles or more he’d be there at the finish
And a cool box of Keo he’d help to diminish
In three miles or more he would reach for his dream
So he cried out ‘On On’ and put on some steam
Like a ripple of wind running swift on the grass
Like a whippet on heat with a dog at her arse
Like a rocket he went like a bolt from the blue
In his new ACIS trainers he practically flew
His Keo feed body grew bloody and torn
As he hurled it with gusto ‘mongst bramble and thorn
Through Old Paramali and then up the track
He was away on his own at the front of the pack
‘On On’ he cried with a galloping rally
Down through the Snake and along Second Valley
And then without warning amidst all of the yelling
He suddenly realised the speed was now telling
The pack thundered by and  his joy in the race
Was savagely wither’d, for where was his pace?
Two minutes ago he was heading the pack
Now the bastards had left him alone at the back
He felt sick as a parrot his stomach was sagging
His legs felt like lead and his feet were now dragging
He stumbled and tripped and he dropped to his knees
He clutched at his chest and he started to wheeze
He rolled slowly sideways and started to twitch
And slid unceremoniously into a ditch
As he lay in that storm drain he whispered ‘ By heck
I think I’ve arrived at my very last check’
And with that he expired and his spirit rose high
Now he runs with the great triple H in the sky
Where the trails are all downhill and angels in white
Serve you tankards of Keo all day and all night
So all you old hashers still eager for glory
Reflect on the moral of this tragic story
Though there’s glamour and honour in leading the pack
It’s a bloody sight safer to trot at the back !

'IF' by Anon of Paramali

If my ageing limbs can no longer run

If the weekly hash is no longer fun

If I prefer to go home once the run is done

Then I’ll quit


If Doc Smith has told me to give up the booze

If my eyesights so bad I can’t tie up my shoes

If I think that the hares don’t deserve their abuse

Then I’ll quit


If the aches don’t stop, if I’m still in pain

If I think I won’t go if it looks like rain

If I start to believe the On. Pres is half sane

Then I’ll quit


Though I’ve heard all the jokes oh so often before

Though there are no new trails for me to explore

Will I stop while there’s Keo, good company and more

Not ruddy likely