Lyrics

by Tortus, Samurai HHH

In the beginning, Before there was HASH, Saturday’s were boring As householder’s tasks.

Washing the cars, Cleaning the glasses Trimming the kids And wiping their asses.

Back in the year of Eighty and five, A brain-phart was born That is still alive.

Out from the classroom The shout, “now he’s farted.” And with a foul breeze The Samurai, Milt started.

From a cadre demented That numbered a few, Uncle Milty, Gympy and Chucky-Choo-Choo.

The antics, ideas, and Concepts he cheered Took root, were nourished And grew wild on beer.

Let’s live life, be happy, Run trail til you drop If the terrain is too hilly Just find a beer stop.

Up steps, climb a fence, Dodge a truck, cross a river Drink it down, Samurai Chief, Maybe hurl, kill your liver.

The pack swells to 90 And the temperatures, too As the pack’s in pursuit Of elusive cool brew.

A chorus, a cry as one from the pack, “Could this be a CB?” “Where the f**k are we?” “Is this a back track?”

So Saturday’s have purpose, We have something to do, And dear Uncle Milty It’s all thanks to YOU!