There's a small seaside town called Pangandaran
That's noted for fresh air and fun.
Fuk U O'Connell McLiang Bujur
Went there for some sand and some sun.
He didn't think much of the drive down,
Wrecked buses and angkutans too,
Lorries shedding their load, and the holes in the road
But he finally arrived about two.
So seeking unbounded amusement,
He paid up, after getting quite riled.
"Per ribu, per orang, per masuk," the man said,
"Per woman, per man, or per child."
He didn't care much for the ocean,
So went into a bar with his cash,
Where he met with three dubious amigos
Who were thinking of setting a hash.
So straight way Pak McLiang Bujur;
Not showing a morsel of fear,
Took his wallet, and paid his subscription,
On the promise of free food and beer.
The torchlight run started quite promptly.
He was late (his directions were wrong).
By the time he got back to the on-in,
Hashers, wieners, and beer had all gone.
In great haste he drove back to the Sunrise,
Where he drank enough beer for a week.
So he slid down the bar, and next morning,
He was found on the floor in a heap .
The on-out on Saturday morning
Made his stomach all churn up inside,
With his face that was green as the canyon,
And his head felt at least twice as wide.
He finally arrived at the river,
A flotilla of boats waited there,
With paddles and crew and old inner tubes too,
But the Bintang was too much to bear.
They set off upstream in a convoy,
While some others they did their own thing,
Then a scream and a shout and some thrashing about.
Our hero had just fallen in
They threw him an inner tube smartish,
As down through the rapids he sped,
And his inner tube snagged on an old plastic bag,
But the water was clearing his head.
He drifted on down to the on-in,
Saying, "This is the life for me." .
He was drinking a Bintang, then suddenly, BANG!
He'd been holed by the branch of a tree.
A rescue team had to be sent for
To extricate him from the bush.
He cried out in pain, "Hash Lord, never again"
As down to the on-in they rushed.
His head it was still a bit fragile.
"The hair of the dog," someone said.
So the Farmer's Cup they quickly filled up.
In a while he knew he'd soon be dead.
He took more than an hour to drink it.
A record," they said, "for this sup."
But the record that wouldn't be broken
Was the speed that it all came back up.
In the river they wanted a christening,
Called her "Agatha Crustie" right quick,
And Religious Advisor, St. Peter,
Did the old walking on water trick.
Later that night at the Hash party do,
With good food and beer of the best,
No cruising up canyons, but just Cruisin' Thru,
And a gong show, their talents to test.
The punch they concocted was somewhat too strong
Which caught someone from Oz unawares.
He began with the dance of the seven payungs
And for encores did moonies on chairs.
The Sunday run was quite relaxing,
Not long, and a peaceful float down,
Except for some sparks from the bulwarks
Each time that someone ran aground.
So our hero arrived home next morning,
After too much imbibing and fun.
He arrived back pissed and tired to Bandung,
And still had to do Monday's run.
The on-out was prompt at a quarter past four,
As out under the big shed they did steer
Past a hillock with benches, and also what's more,
An umbrella advertising some beer.
A co-hare rushed out moments later,
As the pack all ran off the wrong way,
Claiminq someone had moved all his paper
(An unlikely story, I say.)
The run started off in confusion,
With some old paper marking the way.
We hadn't a clue, follow red, white, and blue,
Or get lost and end up going grey?
We passed all the regular landmarks,
On a track we already knew well,
And the scribe's first report was a pantat retort
That enhanced the old farmyard smell.
Some of us followed the short run.
Are we bloody poofters? No fear.
The reason is simple and easy to see.
It just meant we'd be first to the beer.
As we arrived back at the on-in,
A pair from the bushes did dash.
Like a tyre from Pirelli was the size of her belly,
Proving definite sex on the hash!
An Aussie liked doing things backwards
Said, "The forward run, you can stick it."
Then after a while, he said with a smile,
"Well, all we can do is play cricket."
The on-in request went unheeded,
So they called in the ex-master they needed.
He answered with glee, "This never happened with me,
And it's late, can you quote me?" he pleaded:
The colonials tried to take over
With all of their main and their might.
We were all pretty miffed, already July the fifth,
And a tea party nowhere in sight.
With songs, sparklers, and flags they regaled us,
And a pip spitting contest, to boot.
Though at this time of night, and without a light,
No one could see where to shoot. (Apologies Queenie!)
We'd a surfeit of old ex Hash masters,
And nobody knew what to do.
I think that it's weird, we'd had more than appeared
In the whole history of "Dr. Who".
The Hash horn had found a new "Sphincter"
Whose first attempts couldn't have been worse.
Then a unholy row, as Karl showed him how
His auditory orifice to purse.
A bandaged up "Holy Shit" Hasher,
On anonymity he surely was banking,
Until called from the round, and made to down-down,
For injuries sustained during wanking.
The Hash Bard a poem was proud to relate
On the history and state of the United States.
With sadness he said, "It went over their heads,
"Cause none of them got too irate."
A couple it seems got quite bored,
So attempted the world talking record,
Their voices trailed off as their mouths filled with froth
And the beer down their cheeks slowly poured.
Freshly christened "Agatha Crustie"
The next Hashbook has to write.
And Ivan the Terrible's 250th hash run
Was achieved on this Monday night.
The ex-master (the lecherous hound),
Dragged a pretty girl in to down-down.
It must have been nice, she had to sit on some ice
To cool all her passions back down.
So I draw to a close on this sordid affair
As now to the end I have come.
Fuk U O'Connell McLiang Bujur declares,
Good run, good run, qood run.
--
"Arsehole Bau"