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 is LoadingBay's Plagarism of "The RA and The Cooperman"
The Full Moon Hash was finishing beneath the rising sun,
Hashers wondering what to do to elongate the fun
Reluctantly set off for home, now that the party's done.
The RA and the Cooperman sat staring at the sky,
They wept like anything because their barrel had run dry.
"Oh woe is me, oh lack a day!" came forth the plaintive cry.
"If seven maids with seven pumps pulled for half a year,
Do you suppose," the RA said "that they'd replace our beer?"
"I doubt it", said the Cooperman, and shed a bitter tear.
"Then we must seek out bottles" the RA did suggest
"Of London Pride and Pedigree and Ruddles County Best."
"I'm with you!" said the Cooperman, "I'll join your noble quest!"
And so they scoured the Island, north to south and west to east,
For bottles filled with grain and hops, fermented with good yeast.
They didn't even stop for breath 'till all their cravings ceased.
And when at last they stopped to rest, they knew their work was done,
For bottles that were full upon the Island numbered none.
The RA and the Cooperman had drunken every one!
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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.