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I left Jim at Two Amigos Sitting at the bar, Stick-handling a coaster. He was a hockey star, Showed it when he smiled. He tells stories Of blood freezing on ice, Jersey pulls and sweat, Body checks and corners. He circles the Zamboni, On memory's icy mirror. The crowds cheer Jim To get off the ice, Let the game begin. He speeds his machine To the far end doors, Vanishing down the tunnel. He's just ordered a double boiler-maker, Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick, And slaps back another shot.
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Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
The Slap Shot
I left Jim at Two Amigos Sitting at the bar, Stick-handling a coaster. He was a hockey star, Showed it when he smiled. He tells stories Of blood freezing on ice, Jersey pulls and sweat, Body checks and corners. He circles the Zamboni, On memory's icy mirror. The crowds cheer Jim To get off the ice, Let the game begin. He speeds his machine To the far end doors, Vanishing down the tunnel. He's just ordered a double boiler-maker, Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick, And slaps back another shot.
francie-lynch
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Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
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