Twas the night before Liverpool, when all through Madrid
Every football fan was sleeping, except for the Yids;
Shin guards and boots laid by the mantle with care,
“Glory Tottenham Hotspur” would soon fill the air;
Old Danny Rose was all snug in his bed,
While visions of Salah danced through his head;
And the league in the 60s, ‘84 as the model,
Dreamed sweet little dreams - Ricky, Ossie and Hoddle;
While oh down below the prep wouldn’t stop,
Poch and Perez gameplanning for Klopp.
Away to the mirror Jan treated his gash,
Spit out some blood, threw his mask in the trash.
The badger on top of our new-risen home,
Our “big summer signing” none bought and none loaned;
When what to my wonder should Harry appear,
Battered and bruised, after a long World Cup Year;
With a little old smile he reminisced on our trip,
A UCL final for the club made by Bill Nic.
More rapid than roosters his teammates they came,
And he whistled and shouted, “Lads seize the day!”
“Now Dier, now Dele, now Toby and Christian!
On Erik, On Lucas, on Winksy and Janssen!
This team never quits! It’s a part of our fabric!
Stick to the script! And believe Poch’s magic!”
How gleeful the squad, that Winsky did join,
To hold down the midfield, despite his bad groin;
So embrace him they did, how much he has grown,
The English Iniesta and one of our own.
Over in the corner, stood Fernando aloof
Awoken by a ghost, though he had no proof.
As he scratched his head, and clinically turned round,
Down the chimney Hugo Lloris came with a bound.
A daring French beauty, from his head to his foot,
Le Capitaine squashed the nerves caput;
Our defense steadfast, by the best keeper seen,
Put numbers in attack and he’ll keep our sheet clean.
His attacking mates behind him, always calm and merry,
First Lucas, our hat-trick hero, and head never hairy;
Next came a sight that would make the Reds quake,
Enter Sonny and Dele with a patent handshake;
Dele thought to the morrow, hand turned to a fist,
Sonny visualized a counter - inch-perfect assist.
Suddenly Fern’s ghost emerged, in advance of the final,
It was Mousa Dembele returning from China.
Our midfield steed turned and spoke rather slowly,
The Belgian was back and he wanted a trophy;
“About beating Liverpool, I have some things to say,
Drop Eriksen deeper, and trust Aurier;
Hold your shape, let the ball do the work,
Frustrate Mo Salah, he’ll dive like a jerk;
Remember they’re human, a weakness to expose,
With each passing minute, our confidence grows;
When the time is right, unleash Sissoko’s missile,
And the Yids shall prosper at the final whistle.”
Last he winked at Poch, our Argentinian king
“To Dare Is To Do, let’s win the fudgein thing!”