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Forty thousand Genoani kicking up a din.
Trying to give their team a lift before the match begins.
Surely we won’t lose tonight, hell no, we’re bound to win.
There’s a Prince from Buenos Aires playing up front.
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The Prince of Buenos Aires, he’s endowed with silky skills.
He ghosts clean past defenders, when he shoots, he shoots to kill.
If he’s on song, and turns it on, he never fails to thrill.
Milito’s got the ball, oh mamma mia!
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Eleven Red and Blue Shirts took the field that warm June night.
Three points were sorely needed to accede to the Top Flight.
But stubborn Serie C-doomed Venice swore that they would fight.
They hadn’t come to Zena for the ride.
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Scarce fourteen minutes on the clock, they showed just what they meant.
Vicente caught us napping, stuck the ball into our net.
But we were not downhearted, nay, we had no cause to fret,
A golden-booted Prince was on the prowl…
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We knew that soon or late he pull one back, set matters right.
We had no doubt he’d got the South End goal fixed in his sights.
And sure enough he sent Marassi buzzing with delight.
He made it level just before the break.
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When Rossi put us two-one up we rubbed our hands with glee.
When Oliveira equalised, we cursed our destinee.
But once again our handsome Prince was there to make it three.
Yes, Diego blazed the trail to Serie A.
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That lad from Argentina, he’s one class goleador.
The type of lethal finisher we’d all been yearning for.
We hope and pray, he’ll don our Shirt for many long years more.
The Prince of Buenos Aires, that’s Amor!