| My grandfather used to take us
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| Down to the ice skatin' show
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| At the hockey rink at the stadium
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| When the Blackhawks were on the road
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| We’d cheer for the clowns in their costumes
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| And the beautiful figure ballet
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| Of the former Olympic champions
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| As they’d spin on the frozen spray
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| But there was one moment in that whole spectacular show
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| When the band would strike up a quiet waltz
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| And they turned all the lights down low
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| Old smoothies
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| Two old people on skates
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| Sequined septuagenarians
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| Doing their figure eights
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| How they’d glide 'round the arena
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| So serene and sublime
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| They had been the old smoothies for a long, long time
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| Where did they get the stamina?
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| And how did they stay in shape?
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| I know that took the lion’s share
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| Of liniment, pride and tape
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| See my Grandfather smile and the smoothies
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| Would glide and pirouette
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| Then he would reach for my Grandma’s hand
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| And Grandma’s eyes got wet
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| The spotlight stayed on the smoothies
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| While they circled the ice and bowed
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| Before fifteen thousand hockey fans
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| Not a dry eye in the crowd
|
| Old smoothies
|
| Two old people on skates
|
| Sequined septuagenarians
|
| Doing their figure eights
|
| How they’d glide 'round the arena
|
| So serene and sublime
|
| They had been the old smoothies for a long, long time |