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Cruisin’ along with a three-nil lead.
We’d seen off the ‘Pool with surprising ease.
Fifty-six seconds, Maldini struck.
Paolo could scarcely believe his luck.
He picked up a pass and he bagged the first goal.
Crespo got two more, the match was a stroll!
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Coastin’ to Vict’ry in Istanbul.
We’d slaughtered the Reds, made ‘em all look fools.
Tifosi were singing triumphant songs.
Alas, then the script went so horribly wrong.
Steve Gerrard dealt us a deadly blow.
Nodded one in, and the rest you know…
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Here we are sat in an airport lounge.
Dida and Nesta, the rest of the bunch.
Silvio’s livid, he tears out his hair.
(The little that’s left on his pate so bare).
Seedorf, Serginho and Shevchenko,
Wet-eyed, a-weeping, bewailing their woes.
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Can you imagine how gutted we feel?
Playthings of Fortune, who gives but to steal.
Hands on the Silver, yet we let it slip.
Firm in our grasp, then it fell from our grip.
We blew our chance, now we daren’t head home.
We’ve no particular place to go…