Loading Bay's
    Anthology of Isle of Wight Hash Poetry



    The Isle of Wight Hash has long been entertained by Loading Bay's quick wit and pen. Here's a few of his more well known Pomes.

    • HardOn reaches 70

    • My degeneration: (Full Moon Nash Hash)

    • Burns Night: On the Use of Proper Words for Things

    • Burns Night: The Address to the Vegetarian Haggis

    • On P-Rick attempting to wind a canalboat

    • On visiting Wales in 2011
      • The Evils of the World
      • Snoring
      • Disturbing the Peace

    • On The Bard reaching 500 Runs

    • On MrMagoo retiring as RA

    • On European Relations

    • Gill's bit

    • And another poet for thought....

    HardOn Reaches 70
    Three score years and ten at last,
    Is lechery now in the past?
    Is Poubelle safe from wandering mitts?
    Will he gaze no more on Bumps' round bits?
    Can Handcuffs run around and find
    She's unafraid of who's behind?
    And are all harriettes freed from fear
    Of that most lusty, lecherous leer?

    If this were true there'd be regret,
    But fear not, girls, he's not spent yet.
    He may not run with leap and bound
    But still his eyesight's pretty sound.
    Though he can't catch you on the run
    A crowded bar can still be fun.

    So here's to Hard-on, lets all hope
    He's decades left to watch and grope

       
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    From Full Moon Nash Hash 2009, a Missive from Loading Bay who can't Remember where he put his Youth

    My Degeneration
    People try to put us down.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Just 'cos we can't get around.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    Ran so far in our heyday.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Now cartilage is all worn away.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    Degeneration   Degeneration, On-On!

    Seems like you all ... fade away.   Cos I can't hear most things you say.
    My body's losing all ... sensation.   Victim of Degeneration.

    There's strange rhythms beating in my heart.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Body's all stiff except one part.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    Love life once was so very full.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Now muscles are all that I can pull.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    Degeneration   Degeneration, On-On!

    Half my teeth are made of gold.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Too late to die before I get old.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    Used to be part of the scene.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Now all I crave's glucosamine.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    Can't remember what I've just said.   Talking 'bout degeneration
    Can't remember what I've just said.   Talking 'bout degeneration

    (repeat until Nurse comes)

       
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    And from the Burns afternoon recitation....

    PROPER WORDS
    Why don't we use the proper words for things our bodies do?
    Why do we never defaecate, why must we shit or poo?
    And when the bladder's bursting 'cos we've had one drink too many,
    We very rarely urinate, but piss or spend a penny.

    And as for sexual congress, you'll all know some terms, I bet:
    Make love, roger, slip her a length, or bury the beef bayonet,
    Put the ferret through the furry hoop, or if you feel in luck,
    You could play hiding the sausage, but after that I'm stuck.

    The penis is a willy, todger, old man, cock or prick,
    Wife's best friend or trouser snake, dongler, dangler, dick.
    For female genitalia there's less choice, let's be blunt:
    There's fanny, or there's pussy or there's bottom at the front.

    And even at the end of life we rarely simply die,
    We go to sleep or pass away, rise up where angels fly.
    And then they lay us down to rest and permanent repose,
    They never stick us in the ground to rot and decompose.

    All this euphemistic talk has really gone too far.
    Why don't we try describing things exactly as they are?
    So when you meet a woman and you go out on a date,
    Try saying, "My penis is erect now, would you care to copulate?"

       
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    One of the highlights of our frequent Burns Nights is Loading Bay's "Address to the Vegetarian Haggis". This has to be put in context as following on immediately from the usual (Burns) version...

    And here's a second, piping hot
    To fill this gaping, groaning slot
    Wi' warm good cheer.

    But wait - what's here?
    You're pale and white,
    You've got nae meat, you taste o' shite!

    Imposter o' the pudding race, go-
    I'll nae stuff you in ma face!

       
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    This is an observation from the towpath of a particularly amusing manoeuvre.

    A boat which measures fully seventy feet from bow to stern
    Can sometimes be a bugger when it comes to time to turn,
    So here's a tip to minimize the time you have to wait-
    Just choose a stretch of water measuring more than sixty-eight.

    Bilbo's face looks so much nicer now he's had his teeth repaired.
    He can smile towards young children and they do not run off scared.
    The next thing he should work on as he gazes in the glass
    Is how the hell to beautify his great fat hairy arse.

    When I went to void my bowels, just as the day began,
    A monstrous jobbie wedged itself sideways 'cross the pan,
    And as I stood and wondered whether it would sink or float,
    The angle it adopted made me think of P-Rick's boat.

       
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    April 2011 Canal Trip visit to Henry Vaughan's Poetry Walk around Tal-y-bont, on which Loading Bay promptly remarked that "My poetry's better!".  "This first poem is an attempt to introduce more gravitas into my work, following the Hash round the poetry trail."

    The Evils of the World
    Many things you see in life will cause your heart to grieve,
    Injustice, war and suffering which you cannot believe,
    Pollution, global warming and natural disasters,
    Animals being treated with indifference by their masters,
    Dishonest politicians who seek only wealth and fame,
    Pious folk who kill each other in religion's name.
    But nothing I have ever seen has caused me more distress
    Than the sight of Uncle Geoff and Salvi in a dress.

       
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    Difficulties sleeping experienced by several members of the party reminded me of the following verse from a poem I wrote a few years ago about a sailing trip.

    Snoring
    The snoring was infernal, like the clearing of a drain,
    Or logs being sawn, or pigs being killed, but louder than a train.
    For measuring the volume normal instruments would fail.
    Decibels won't do the job, you'd need the Richter scale.

       
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    And here is my theory to explain why we received so many complaints from the locals about noise.

    Disturbing the Peace - (to be read in a Welsh accent)
    Shouting, is it? Noisy bastards! ruining our peace,
    Scaring all our lambs away, so we can't grab their fleece.
    They're very timid creatures and that racket makes them nervous
    So it's very difficult to get them back to serve us.
    And so we're left with little choice, we'll have to shag each other,
    Brother, sister, cousin, aunt, but draw the line at mother.

       
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    And this was writ on the occasion of the Bard acheiving 500 runs in 2015.

    SPENT FORCE
    Oh Loading Bay, thou great and glorious bard of Hash on Wight,
    Today thou hast achieved a landmark bright!
    Five hundred times hast thou trod the tortuous, twisting trail of finest flour,
    How speedily didst thou run through mud and shit in bygone days, such was thy previous power!

    But lately struck by cruel relentless Father Time,
    Art thou the merest shadow of thy proud and potent prime,
    Condemned, with other poor sad hashing wrecks, to sip the last remaining summer wine.

    Once famed for greed, and first to heed the need to feed with lightning speed, now others lead,
    And, great renowned glutton though thou art,
    These days thou art beaten to the trough by Bart!
    O'er land where once thou leapt and ran,
    These days a gentle stroll, and back to Bernie's van.

    Yet be content, for thou hast had thy shining moments in the sun.
    Relax, enjoy the sunset, now the running's done!

       
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    THE END OF AN ERA - when JMMcGee retired as RA:

    It's the end of an era, I'm sorry to say,
     We're losing the world's longest standing RA.
    When you retire it must seem rather odd
     Being replaced by someone as old as Poor Sod,
    But just like Prince Charles, Poor Sod's had to learn
     About waiting for ever until it's your turn.

    For nearly three decades John's kept us amused,
     And punished all those who the rules have abused,
    By wearing new shoes, not wearing hash gear,
     Ignoring the lineouts or spilling their beer,
    Slipping on mud, tripping on stones,
     Or even just having a nice name like Bones.

    His jokes have been varied, some feeble, some good,
     And some only Coops and myself understood.
    Some were so funny he used them again,
     And again and again and again and again,
    But for oceans of laughter we're all in his debt,
     A more amiable fellow few will have met.

    Long ago down downs featured a whole pint of beer,
     But austerity's taken its toll, so I fear,
    And the size of the drink has gradually shrunk,
     Until these days the beer is inhaled, not drunk.
    So perhaps it's as well he's decided to go,
     For sucking the beer mat's the next step, you know.

    In this final verse I must be sincere,
     For John is a chap that all hashers hold dear.
    He's set for our hash a civilized tone,
     Never causing offence, but always he's shown
    Eloquence, wit and good humour throughout,
     A hard act to follow, of that there's no doubt.

       
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    And LoadingBay again 'On European Relations':

    In the jungles of Malaysia in 1965,
     A soldier of Japan was found, who'd managed to survive,
    All by himself for twenty years without a single friend,
     As nobody had told him that the war was at an end.

    Ventnor can be just like that in glorious isolation,
     There's folk who think the Hun still want to bomb their radar station.
    But here's some news for Snowman, you're out of date, I fear.
     The Germans are our friends these days, so come and try their beer.

       
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    This bit's from Gill, who writes, "P.S. How do you get something on the 'Poets Cornered' page, and would this twaddle qualify?"

    Thoughts of a Virgin
    I've lately met a group of folk who like a laugh, enjoy a joke
    They run for fun - no need to race - don't care about the time or pace!
    They're not impressed by sweat or blood - there's just one thing - You MUST like mud!
    You must like wading to your knees in Toxic Waste beneath the trees!
    Must be prepared to trust the Hare and follow the Pack anywhere!
    No matter how the trail is set, you'll probably get VERY wet!
    They really are a friendly crew - who absolutely welcome you!
    ......unless of course you don't like fun, or mud, or helping anyone!
    In which case and without a doubt - you really will be missing out! :)

       
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    And finally, this something that Fracas found... It's a poem written by Charles Hamilton Sorley just before the WW1. He was killed in action. Was he describing a kind of hashing?

    We swing ungirded hips,
    And lightened are our eyes,
    The rain is on our lips,
    We do not run for prize.
    We know not whom we trust
    Nor whitherward we fare,
    But we run because we must
    Through the great wide air.

    The waters of the seas
    Are troubled as by storm.
    The tempest strips the trees
    And does not leave them warm.
    Does the tearing tempest pause?
    Do the tree-tops ask it why?
    So we run without a cause
    'Neath the big bare sky.

    The rain is on our lips,
    We do not run for prize.
    But the storm the water whips
    And the wave howls to the skies.
    The winds arise and strike it
    And scatter it like sand,
    And we run because we like it
    Through the broad bright land.

       
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    OnOn! S.C.A.F.L.H.Taverner (aka Loading Bay)

    Other similar Poets you may be interested in:-
    Robert Burns, William McGonagall, Pam Ayers, Spike Milligan, Henry Vaughan.