SFH3 Run #1900: Hashoween
: 10/29/2018
: 9th Ave & Lake
: Crabs & Backwash
: Do Her Well

Once upon a Hashoween dreary, trails we plodded, weak and weary,
Crabs and Backwash leading us deep into a night of gore—
Cosmic Pussy, innocently laughing, led her pooch with tail a wagging,
Gondalerrhea dragging his lion napping, My Little Porno silencing the doggie’s snore.
“’Tis just the hash,” I muttered, “dropping flour by a rich dude’s door—
Only this and nothing more.”

As we ran under light of the moon, hoping drinks would be near to us soon,
Buck Fucka leaping after Pole Her Bare creeping towards to a sloshing pitcher’s pour,
Cum Test Dummy sighted with her eye, the group gathered where bodies still lie,
Can’t Eat Pussy downing every drop and shamelessly asking for even more,
Lining up next to Fleshlight and Golden Snowball for the sweet nectar’s pour,
But drink check is out—nothing more!

Ah, distinctly I remember when Motormount was more limber;
But it’s Deadbeat now who runs through timber, passing Cosmo on the forest floor
On All Fours wished to borrow some humor in our time of sorrow,
But Cuming Mutha would wake tomorrow— and think of hashes years before…
For the deeds that came to pass on Hashoweens of years before…
Are lost to time forevermore.

But Goat Throat’s bare ass, Wrinklepecker flying past, Bloqueen closing fast,
Saved me—gave me strength to bring my bridge to fore;
So now as I stand listening I watch our hashers faintly glistening
“Drink!” Shouts Tuna, “For your crimes you’ll drink some more,”
As our hashers entreating entrance at the white van’s door,
That’s all the beer, there’s nothing more.

But our visitors’ voices grew stronger, hesitating no longer,
Rock Cock, William Shakesperm, your songs wouldn’t bore,
And while the one we’d like to examine was a harriatte named Orgasm Famine
It was Goat Throat had broken out of his pen, ‘til even Room For Jesus said no more.
Vagina Dentata yelled for Wee Wee’s scissors hoping for his eyes to core
“Darkness I’ll see, and nothing more.”

But with each cup our souls grew stronger, (Except for Mouth who’s drinking no longer)
And Bierectional told us of a peculiar mark, one that he’d not seen before
“The fact is I was running, searching for trail with all my cunning,
And the mark I found was quite stunning, a tampon full of bloody gore.”
“That’s mine!” Tonya Hardon admitted, “That’s what I was looking for!”
But the tampon lost forevermore.

Was there more for us to be learning, of why there were some hashers spurning,
Spurning us for better people than this group of filthy whores?
Menage A Lot had no excuse, 9 1/2 Wanks would refuse,
Cool Handjob Luke had a startup to lose keeping him from hashes before.
What did the hash have to say about what kept them from hashes before?
That reason’s dumb-- and nothing more.

The costume contest was approaching, Bitch’s Bitch’s Breathalyzer encroaching,
Hand Pump outfit beyond reproaching as the emperor who came before,
Surely said I, this wasn’t easy, I’d rather have run with Sleazy,
But Just Doesn’t Get It’s bridge toll saved my house from war,
For the hash costume contest is a battle to the very core,
Good thing Crabs got three prizes from the store.

And so it was onto announcements, Cockamole making a pronouncement,
Snoball’s arrival about to pounce meant pay Muff Daddy for drinks galore.
One and Done also had good news, his baby meant he wouldn’t pay dues,
So we said goodbye until the kid at eighteen walks out his door,
Fuck Buddy laughing said he’d get permission after doing countless chores,
Countless chores and not before.

So our hares bid us all good night with Hello Titties laughing at the sight
As underneath the pale street light, hashers rubbed at legs so sore,
And Tears of Semen bid goodbye to Fuck Buddy as she rounded up her crew,
While Millimeter Peter waved a forlorn tentacle to the hashers heading out to drink some more,
For hashers know when the van is closing, the bar is the best hope they have in store,
The keg is kicked, beer is no more.