Sprint Scribe


There once was a hasher from Brussels

Who had quite impressive leg muscles

One day she felt sway

To run Pennine Way

Just 400 miles - no big hustle

First, Pink packed her rucksack

Unfortunately no booze, just all snacks

Then she hoisted her bits

Said bye bye Sugar Tits

Off with fine Fanny to Dick Slack!

Her journey's not one for the weak

For six nights, she got little sleep

Though it might make you grin

The culprit's not Moorcock Inn

She raced right on past up a peak

Tis true, like the wankers we are

We watched your dot move from afar

Red Dykes made us howl

Crag Bottom seemed foul

And you, dear miss Pink, were the star

Alas we did come to question

Your taste and sense of direction

When Stoney Butts neared

And Cripple Hole - oh dear

Though Slaggyford gave some an erection

The race ended, at last, in a town

Where there was not a beer to be found!

After 136 hours

Pink gave quite a scowl

So we give our good friend a down down