Since we were running and or walking in a monsoon, most of us missed the Hash Poem that Blows had left along the trail.
Why do I do this thing called hashing?
It's crude, foul and not at all dashing.
Through the shiggy I come a crashing, scraped by briar I take a slashing.
Again I've had another terrible bashing, a pox on the hare and a thorough lashing!
So just why do I continue hashing?
But the following week I return to the hash.
Again I lay down all my spare cash, then huddle and feign smiles for the flash.
The hare looks fleet and oh so brash!
He grabs his chalk and flour stash, and disappears with swagger and sash.
I clench my teeth and begin to gnash and trudge into the night to trip and thrash.
It's on-on to another poison ivy rash!
So just why do I continue to do this hash?
Another trail done, I am bruised and gashed.
My clothes are tattered and my feet mashed.
With forces of nature I have butted and clashed, stumbled, fumbled, groped and splashed.
Too embarrassed to admit I have once again hashed, I will swill cheap brew until thoroughly trashed.