There was movement at the Spini, for the word had passed around
That the hare from Derby hash had got away,
And joined the wild marsh mudcrabs – running sideways cross King Sound,
So all the hashers gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted hashers from the cities near and far
Had landed at this outpost through the years,
For the runners love hard drinking where the wild marsh mudcrabs are,
And the walkers snuff the jogging for the beers.
There was Yno, who made her stand when the kennel first set up,
The old girl with her mug filled to the brim;
And few could drink beside her when her blood was fairly up
She would quaff long after boy and man caved in.
And Dags from Hamersley came up to lend a gut,
No better drinker ever felt so harsh;
For kids nor wife could drag him while the beer still filled his cup,
He learned to drink while running on the marsh.
And one was there, a stripling like a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a saltie undersized,
With a touch of native dog - three parts wolverine at least
And such as are by global hashers prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
And silent like he had been interbred
He bore the badge of crazy in his bright and fiery eye,
And he never threw the hash splash past his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And old Yno said, "That Wolf he won’t pull through
Through a long and tiring hash halt - Wolf, you'd better stop away,
The marsh is far too flat for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Dags stayed as his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," Dags mused;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
And the old guy - he won’t drink all the booze.
"He hails from Derby Township, in the Kimberley’s heart,
Where the marsh is twice as wet and twice as rough,
Where your sneakers stick like glue and the mudflats never part,
The hasher that holds his own is good enough.
And the Derby Hash House Harriers on the mudflats make their home,
Where the rivers all run o’er and in between;
I have seen full many hashers since I first commenced to roam,
But a sober one departing I’ve never seen."
So Wolf went - they found the mudcrabs by the rooted mangrove clump -
They raced away towards the sloppy banks,
And old Yno gave her orders, "Let’s go at them from the jump,
And leave behind those fancy sneakers thanks.
Plain Comfy, Hungry Bum, check it left and check it right.
Send the Gump on straight - avoid false trails.”
Muffin Top and White Rabbit couldn’t keep the mob in sight,
Whilst Sphincter was just waiting for the ales.
Lucky Hooker found the trail - she was racing at the fore
Where the front running bastards take their place,
Dags said “I named her Lucky cos I couldn’t call her whore”
Well at least not out in public to her face.
They halted for a moment, and Dags handed out some splash,
Then waited for Gobble Dick’s voice to halt,
She talked and no-one listened, well except maybe for Rash,
Who drinks warm beer although it’s not her fault.
“On-on” the hashers followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the tourists and their kind,
Whilst Well Laid stumbled forward and tried to keep the track
Titsel kept falling further behind.
And sideways, ever sideways, the wild mudcrabs held their way,
Where Brahman beef and boabs both grew wide;
And old Gretta muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
For I must walk my wife who’s growing great with child."
When they reached the river’s bank, Donkey took a pull,
Which made the ladies sharply draw their breath,
The mangrove roots grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of crocodiles, and any slip was death.
But the Derby Hash House Harriers kept tramping through the mud
Clueless tooted on the horn, and cried “on-on”,
And they raced on down the river bank like the Fitzroy under flood,
The Broome hash wondered why they had all gone.
They sent the mud clods flying, and never once fell over,
They caught fresh barramundi in their stride,
The hash from Broome gave up and went home clean and sober
That Broome mob couldn’t hash deadly if they tried.
Through the mangrove swamps and shiggy, on the rough and dirty paths,
Through the packs of roaming camp dogs some call pets;
And they never lost the trail even when the sky turned dark,
So unlike the trails that Clueless usually sets.
BMW was at the front as they roamed the dark back streets,
And Two Balls looked on with loving pride,
‘Til she tripped over a mattress, became tangled in the sheets,
And nearly swept away on the outgoing tide
They lost the hare for a moment, behind the Boab Hotel
So they drank a few refreshers then drank some more
There was talk of staying ‘til Tight Nuts gave a strangled yell,
“I see a crab has got our hare between its claws”.
The hash jumped up and ran to the tide wave brown with foam
Followed trail like a mob chasing killer beef,
Till the crabs stopped cowed and beaten, Dags took the big ones home,
And they gave the hare a consolation leaf.
By now the hash was drunk and tired they could scarcely raise a trot,
And Buggsy’s thongs were looking rather drab;
Still they knew that when on home the circle would be running hot,
So they gave up and hailed a passing cab.
And in the Kimberley, where the ancient ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is wet as virgins, the Derby hashers fairly blaze
‘Til midnight ‘neath the hot and humid sky,
And where around the Kimberley the grass plains sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the muddy flats are wide,
The Derby Hash House Harriers are a household name today,
It’s where the beer goes down much faster than the tide.