Source: Horntip Collection - Half-Mind Hymnal 2011

Lyrics

Next Thanksgiving, next Thanksgiving, Don’t eat bread, don’t eat bread, Shove it up the turkey, shove it up the turkey, Eat the bird, eat the bird.

Next Christmas, next Christmas, Don’t trim a tree, don’t trim a tree, Shove it up the chimney, shove it up the chimney, Goose Saint Nick, goose Saint Nick.

Next Easter, next Easter, Don’t color eggs, don’t color eggs, Shove them up the rabbit, shove them up the rabbit, Eat the hare, eat the hare.

The NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON, DECEMBER 13, 1997 Poem by Flying Booger (1996)

‘Twas the December Full Moon, and all through the land, Hashers were stirring, the night would be grand; Their hash bags were stuffed in the B-Van with care, In hopes the Grand Master soon would be there;

The harriettes were clothed all snug in their sweats, Speaking, as usual, like they all had Tourette’s; And Pick ‘n’ Flick in her headband, and I in my sarong, Were up for a trail, no matter how long,

When from a neighboring junkyard there arose such a clatter, We ran for the fence to see what was the matter, Over the chain link we hopped in a flash, Ripped our shorts on the top - what the hell, it’s a hash;

The full moon shone down on a field of old tires, And a group of hobos, warming hands round a fire, When what to our wondering eyes should be there, But the Grand Master - and dressed as a hare!

With a great big beer belly, and a tankard of lager, I feared the GM would soon lead us to slaughter; More rapid than eagles his co-hares they came, And he guzzled, and belched, and called them by name:

“Now Zippy! now, Mullet! now, Floppy and Sex Toy! On, Access! on, oPie!, on Swamp Bitch and Rude Boy! Through the worst of the shiggy, through valley and dale, Now, hare away, hare away, lay us a trail!”

As dry heaves that after indulgence do retch, The hares sprinted off with nary a stretch, And into the woods with their flour they flew, While we sang Father Abraham - and Wanking Day too.

And then of a sudden, headlights loomed in the dark, And we watched in silence as a strange car did park; Then from this rust-bucket there sprang with a hail, The Religious Advisor - who we thought was in jail.

He was dressed in hash rags from his head to his crotch, And his clothes were all stained with semen and scotch, His mouth it hung open in a great gaping leer, And all four of his chins did glisten with beer.

A well-worn hash whistle he held tight in his teeth, And his BO encircled the pack like a wreath; Our long-missing Hash Shit did he clutch in his hand, And he looked like an escapee from no-mans’ land.

His eyes, how bloodshot! His nostrils, how hairy! His cheeks were all stubbled, like Yassur’s, how very; His nose was all runny and his stomach did sag, The way it rolled over his pudendae, even Jammies did gag.

He was a trailer park reject, a man of no status, She Mussel laughed when she saw him, while AD passed flatus; And the droop of his eye, and the point of his head, Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.

He said not a word, but went straight to the tap, And filled up his mug, the free-loading sap; Then putting a finger up one side of his nose, Blew a great wad of snot, then wiped it off on his clothes.

He took off down the trail, leaving us stunned, It was hard to believe the fat fuck could actually run; But we heard him exclaim as he ran out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all hashers, and to all a good night!”