Cech is back, to dart and fly,
and see off all with untainted eye,
to drop down low or palm them high,
when Chelsea defenders role over and die.
He has a save to match each shot,
one-on-ones, set-pieces, he can handle the lot,
strikers fear the skill he’s got,
as chance after chance is left to rot.
But it could have been so different.
As Kuyt stole from Cech, a goal,
As Liverpool were out to shatter souls,
As the death bells were starting to toll,
after all those misses from Joe Cole…
it could have come to nothing.
Terry’s each move an offence,
raising arms against Reina- impeding, most dense,
Petty kick on Torres – nonsense,
These Centre-backs own little sense.
As the game drew to a close,
heaven only knows,
it can’t be described in prose,
how Riise went,
and how low he bent,
how he sent,
to his dissent,
the ball into his own net.
Now there is just the away goals rule,
Now I bet Riise feels a fool,
Now just a game at the Bridge to be played,
And soon a team to be dismayed.
Now there are but another 90 minutes,
and the moscow final, with one of these in it.