Slot isn’t getting sacked before the end of the season even if PSG put 10 past us over two legs. I don’t agree with it. The players are not playing for him but they should be playing for the fans who travel home and especially away. A Liverpool team should not capitulate like…
Not shocked that he is leaving, however, still gutted to see him leave. What a player he has been for us and an absolute legend. You will be missed @MoSalah#Salah#LFC#Legend
From Porto's shores to Molineux skies, He learned to strike while wearing disguise. But then came Klopp with that cheeky grin — "You’re Red now, lad. Let’s tuck 'em in."
He landed at Anfield, boots unlaced, No interviews, no Twitter-chased. Just steely eyes and darting runs, And a right foot blessed by Lisbon’s suns.
He scored on debut — classic tale, Then made Atalanta’s backline pale. A Champions League hat-trick? Oh, just that? The lad turned Bergamo into a welcome mat.
And trophies followed, as they do, When you play with grit and a goal or two. A League Cup final, nerves ran high — Jota stood calm while Tuchel sighed. Buried the pen, then winked a smile: "Just doing my job, mate, all the while."
FA Cup next, more Wembley cheers, He danced past defenders, despite their fears. With Luis, Mo, and Bobby too, He slotted in like Super Glue.
Injury came — his hamstring screamed, But he came back lean and laser-beamed. A last-minute winner? Ask Spurs how it felt. Poor Lloris still searches for the ball he dealt.
Against Manchester United? Oh, what a day! He passed, he pressed, then drifted away. Came back on cue to smash in the sixth — Even Salah looked like he’d seen a glitch.
And Portugal calls, their faithful knight, With Bruno, Ronaldo, and red + white. He'd sneak a goal while you blink twice, Then celebrate like he just won dice.
Yet humble still, no strut, no fuss, Just gets on the bus like one of us. No podcast, pout, or fashion scene — Just backheels, goals, and protein lean.
So raise your pint (or pastel de nata), To Jota — Anfield's stealthy sonata. A warrior quiet, a jester sly, Who makes defenders wonder why...
Why he’s always there, at the back post, With limbs of smoke, and skills to boast. He’s not the loudest, not the star, But in big games, he’s never far.
From Lisbon’s dreams to Scouse delight, Diogo Jota — our silent knight. May his boots stay quick, his grin stay wide, A Red forever, with Portugal pride.
He sits now on a heavenly throne, knowing his family will never walk alone
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