Ode On The Re-birth of a Special Project

Nine summers back t'was when he came
From the wet climes of the dragon's lair.
A young-ish lad having won European fame,
He now had to contend with Roman's glare.

Three years of silverware and records followed
As the Bridge roared on their special one.
A team second to none in defense
With the Drog upfront handling the load.

But ol' Big Ears eluded his hands.
And Jose was sent packing from the stands.

Avram, Luiz-Felipe, Guus, Carlo
AVB, Roberto, and Rafa came and went.
But the Bridge yearned for their Potugese sage,
In whose absence the club had come to ascent
And own the continental stage.

For two years Jose roamed every street
In Milan, searching for succour,
Which he found when he beat
The Germans, who were left to flounder.

Next stop was Madrid, and matters worsened
As our man battled the catalans.
Calls for his head left him burdened
Though poking eyes was not part of his plans.

All the while Roman watched as Messi & co
Ripped teams to shred, blow by blow.
The Russian wanted to see style and flair,
Not a bus parked in front of Trafalgar Square.

So the oligarch turned to Jose yet again,
Whose heart carped for the London weather,
And the club which he had left in pain.
He left Madrid, bags packed helter-skelter.

Jose had mellowed down, content and happy,
And a mandate to please eyes and make hearts sway.
"The situation is pure: I don't like how Chelsea play,
This project is beautiful," claimed Jose, no more crappy.

To Cech his tactics so late in life will Schurrle be tough.
With the added strife from keeping Mata on the bench,
Could Jose lose the fans and make Roman say, 'that's 'nuff'?