Hello Barca, my old friend. I've come to coach against you again. Alexis, Xavi and Cescy, scored their goals while I was sitting, and the vision is now planted in my brain, where it remains. Within the faces of Mourinho.
In restless streets I walked alone, Madrid's streets of cobblestone. 'Neath the halo of a street lamp, I popped my collar to the cold and damp. When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of blue and red, that split the night, and changed the face of Mourinho.
From joy, to disbelief, to annoyance, to depression. It's the faces of Jose Mourinho.