(adapted from the Ft. Eustis H3 song by Discus Meniscus and Living Proof)

We're the Mr. Happy's hashers,
and we're glad to be here.
We'll outsing your song-meister,
and drink all your beer.
We'll f*ck all your women,
and then puke in your car.
We're the Mr. Happy's hashers,
we're the best hash by far.

We're the Mr. Happy's hashers,
and we run the town by night.
We're up and down the alleyways,
and know the hares by sight.
We're just a pack of randy hounds
that run from far to near!
We're the Mr. Happy's hashers,
just pass another beer.

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Here's to Brother Hasher,
brother hasher, brother hasher.
Here's to Brother hasher
may he chug-a-lug.

PHe's happy, he's jolly,
he's f*cked up, by golly.
So, here's to brother hasher,
may he chug-a-lug!

So Drink...

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Ass-soul, ass-hole,
a soldier I will be.
To piss, two piss,
two pistols on my knee.

For cunt, for cunt,
to fight for my country!
A sol, a sol, a sol, a sol,
a soldier I will be!

Drink it down, down, down...

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I don't want to join the army,
I don't want to go to war,
I'd rather hang around Picadilly Underground,
Living off the earnings of a high born lady . . .

I don't want a bayonet up me arsehole,
Don't want me bullocks shot away,
I'd rather stay in England,
in merry, merry England,
And fornicate me bloomin' life away, gor blimey

Monday I touched her on the ankle,
Tuesday I touched her on the knee,
On Wednesday, I confess, I lifted up her dress,
Thursday I saw you-know-what,
Friday I put me hand upon it,
Saturday she gave me balls a tweak (Tweak! Tweak!)
And Sunday after supper, I put the old boy up 'er,
And now she earns me forty bob a week, gor blimey

Monday I touched her on the ankle,
Tuesday I touched her on the knee,
On Wednesday, I confess, I lifted up her dress,
Thursday I saw you-know-what,
Friday I put me hand upon it,
Saturday she gave me balls a tweak (Tweak! Tweak!)
And Sunday after supper, I put the old boy up 'er,
And now she earns me forty bob a week, gor blimey

Call out the Regimental Army,
Call out the Navy and Marines,
Call out me mother,
Me sister and me brother,
But for God's sake,
Don't call me, gor blimey

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Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true,
Daisy Daisy wouldn't ya like to screw?
I really must beg your par-don
Cuz I've got a helluva hard-on,
From beatin' my meat, against the seat,
of a bicycle built for two.

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Dinah won't you blow me,
Dinah won't you blow me,
Dinah won't you blow my horn?
Dinah won't you blow me,
Dinah won't you blow me,
Dinah won't you blow my horn?
Someone's in my sister's vagina,
Someone's in my sister I know.
Someone's in my sister's vagina,
Pumping like a dynamo!

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He's got a dose of the clap,
on his dick.
He's got a dose of the clap,
on his dick,
He's got a dose of the clap,
on his dick,
and all it does is go drip, drip, drip.

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There's a game called Twenty-toes,
thats played all over town.
The women play with ten toes up,
the men with ten toes down (down, down, down...)

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As I was walking through St. Paul's
the vicar grabbed me by the balls.
I cried for help,
but no help came.
and so he grabbed my balls again.

As I was walking through the woods,
I shat myself, I knew I would.
I cried for help,
but no help came.
and so I shat myself again.

(be creative, invent verses for this...)

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Now sip your brew and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a drunken hash.
That started with a keg of beer
and everyone got trashed.

The first hare was a brainless cooch,
his co-hare half as smart.
fifteen some-odd half-minds
took off in a cloud of farts

The hills got steep, the shiggy deep,
the alleys had them fooled;
'til someone found the beer-check,
and everybody drooled.

The mud had sucked their sneakers off,
their legs were ripped a lot,
but once they had their nectar,
the trail they soon forgot.

The moral is no matter how
much shiggy's on the trail,
a hashin' twit don't give a sh*t,
when he's swillin' down his ale.

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D'oh, the stuff that buys me beer,
Ray, the guy who sells me beer,
Me, the guy who drinks the beer,
Far, a long way to the beer.
So, I'll have another beer,
La, I'll have another beer,
Tea, no thanks, I'm drinking beer.
and that'll bring us back to down (down, down, down...)

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(credit to Monty Python for this one)

Emmanuel Kant was a real pissant
who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
who could think you under the table.

David Hume could outconsume
Schoppenhauer and Hegel.
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
who was just as sloshed as Schlegel.

There's nothing Nietzche couldn't teach ya' 'bout the raisin' of the wrist.
Socrates himself was permanently pissed.

John Stuart Mill of his own free will,
after half a pint of shandy was particularly ill.
Plato they say, could stick it away,
half a crate of whiskey everyday.

Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle.
Hobbes was fond of his dram.
and Rene Descartes was a drunken fart;
I drink therefore I am.

But its Socrates himself who's particularly missed.
A lovely little thinker, but a bugger when he's pissed!

(drink it down...)

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