Who Are These Guys?

We've thrown off this same old hack since 1985, Eight creaky knees, four dusty brooms, just glad to be alive. We sweep a little slow now and we curl on borrowed luck, Then in strolled four young guns last night — boys, where'd they learn to chuck? Who are these guys?✦ They got fancy custom curling shoes, and they're making runbacks fly✦, There ain't nothing these boys can't do — except 'course strategize When they talk about their spin rate✦, our skip just rolls his eyes, Tips his flask to the rafters — Lord, who are these guys? We got a guy can call the weight✦ by how his bad hip reads the cold, They got a tablet full of angles, stats, and charts of green and gold. We guess the line, we trust the ice, we holler and we pray, They knife and carve and hold rocks straight and bury them away. Who are these guys? They foam-roll, they protein-shake, they dress up to the nines, Every rock that hits the hog they get their stop watch times, We been here since the church-key days✦ — no apps or alibis, Just a sheet of ice and four old friends — now who are these guys? They drink the green stuff outta bottles, we drink the amber gold, They got that sports psychology — we got stories gettin' old. But the handshake came around the house✦, they grinned and shook us true, Then the young guns bought the broomstack round✦... and dang, the kids'll do. 'Cause last end we stole a deuce when their hammer slid too far, Bad break for them, but in the end, they showed us who they are. So here's to fancy footwear and the old beat-up brigade — Long as someone's throwin' stones, the good game's gonna stay. Who are these guys? Turns out they're just us with newer shoes and fewer years, So raise 'em right, raise the brooms, and raise up high your beers, They look across the table and see how their time will fly And ask themselves, who are these guys?