Pub crawlers can stay out of the rain by going to wilkommen now-- no runners trail due to rain.
Twas the day after Snoball
And all through the hash
Not a cocktail was undrunk
Their breath smelled like ass
The hares crawled out from their snug little beds,
While an epic hangover pounded their heads,
With flour in a satchel, some drywall, a map,
Do Her Well would make plans for a post-Snoball lap.
Out at Duboce Park there arose such a clatter.
All the NIMBYs sprang out to see what was the matter.
To NextDoor with their phones they flew like a flash,
Documenting crimes like an SFH3 trash.
The sun from the clouds gave a meagerly glow,
Making halfminds squint like they'd felt a great blow,
And what to their wondering eyes did appear,
But a banged up white van carrying kegs full of beer.
With a driver instantly fitting lines with a thump,
That we knew in an moment it must be Hand Pump
More rapid than eagles the drunkards they came,
And we stood in a line calling marks by their names.
Now backcheck, now song check, now false trail and pack mark,
On dick check, on tit check, on true trail through the park.
To the check we're on on! Climb the hill like a wall!
Now call on one! Call on two! Call on on all!
As the carbonation bubbles from an empty keg fly,
The pack took off seeking beer for throats dry,
And to the nearest pub the walkers they flew,
Led boldly by Dildo Baggins, and Vagina Dentata too.
And then, in a twinkling, we saw on the street
The arrival and pounding of thirsty feet
As they found their last mark, and made a turn around,
At the beer check came Hand Pump with a bound.
He had all kegs aflow, and from his head to his foot,
He had his Christmas finery firmly put;
A bottle of Squirt he had flung on his back,
As he produced margaritas for all of the pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his spirit was merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His wheels he had curbed and drawn up like a bow,
And the side panels gleamed as white as the snow;
The orange food they munched between hungry teeth,
And in a circle they gathered around like wreath;
The RAs shouted out deep down from belly,
Making shoulders shake with laughter like a bowlful of jelly.
The pack made of Santas, some right jolly old elves,
And some wankers in running clothes (including myself);
A wink of the eye and a twist of the head,
Soon let us know we had nothing to dread;
Hand Pump spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the down downs and once they'd been drunk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, from the circle he rose;
He sprang to his van, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they on aftered like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as tires made quite a wail,
HAPPY SNOBALL TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD TRAIL!