Cambridge University Hillwalking Club is a mighty institution,
Though I think the time has come to change the constitution.
So hear these new additions, while you drink your wine,
Though you must excuse the most atrocious rhyme.
The club's membership we first look to,
Especially the subjects that they do.
Engineers and Mathmos, Natscis and Medics,
Might be in the club endemic,
But a few of a different brand,
Can be found to lend a hand.
'What is this?' I hear you say,
'An arts student? In the club today?'
Before you know it they'll be everywhere,
With feet on the fells but their thoughts in the air.
Safety must be of high import,
Lest we get ourselves in court,
But if a group should come back late,
Probably led by Bell and Speight,
The only thing you need to yearn,
Is that at least eighty percent return.
And when they're back you needn't frown,
Provided they don't burn the bunkhouse down.
So now we turn to another thing,
Namely the matter of the songs we sing.
For I Am Cow is now a tradition,
Despite some members' inhibition.
But other words are sung with some elation,
Most frequently under inebriation,
The Gnu song followed by some Queen,
And then those words of Don McLean.
Finally, to sum it up, we need but quickly say,
That when we're gathered, in a hut, on some awful day,
That there is something, quite maddening, for which I can not take the blame,
Oh shit, oh bugger, oh bloody hell: I've gone and lost the game.