A farce, a fiasco, a merry mirth,
decried the old man with the bell,
cried his heart out as he heard,
someone’s poking fun.
The moscovites fancy revenge,
red fire engines await,
who said forget yesterday,
we are still the champions today.
Fate though plays a wonderous hand,
did the other day,
So all we need are omens to sway,
sway the way they did in May.
So it will fall to the last game of all,
we come to your house and pray,
the special one’s bitter hushed revenge awaits,
not if St. Michael’s got something to say.