Hashicus the Drunker
Philly streets did they roam,
Toga-clad hashers of any sex chromosome.
Search for what? A shot? A beer? A place of their own?
Perhaps entertainment in a Hippodrome?*
(*Author aware this is from Greece, not Rome)
In expending many an ohm,
Following Alpha! Beta! Gamma! the streets did they comb.
Barely adept in the alphabet of English tome,
How could they return to their bibulous home?
Lucky if they do not end in a catacomb!*
(*Author hopes this conceit isn’t already making you foam)
Memento vivere! Flaunt that toga!
Enjoy those shots and beer--never soda.
Let it be known we’ve reached my quota,
Write this down with a lead Ticonderoga:
Finally, we’ve reached this trash’s coda.*
(*Aren’t you glad you picked up hashing, instead of yoga?)
This isn’t a toga, this is my Cicerobe. Don’t Sallust after it, though, Seneca’s a little tight and the hood doesn’t fit Ovid my head. Nevertheless, Marc my words: it’ll be all the rage next fashion season--people will Horace to the stores and stand Virgil waiting for new shipments to arrive. Remus’nt underestimate the appeal of a simple garment: sometimes Romulus is more.
“Well you can stop being a pussy-ass bitch”
- Feminist Slothy, to the later named General DooLittle Kids