Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles.
See the old man join the game.
Hobbling like my Great Aunt Alice,
Klose on his zimmer frame.
Cardi buttoned, clad in layers
to protect him from the cold,
this most senior of players
must be eighty five years old.
In his eyes there’s still the embers
of the striker he had been.
In nursing homes, there’s some remembers
the first he scored of his fourteen.
Corner swinging, header angling,
Klose shuffles like a ghost.
Paramedics’ nerves are jangling
as he inches to the post.
Hits his leg and in it bobbles.
That’s the record he has craved.
Klose turns away and hobbles
like a skeleton depraved.
Pill-time, but he doesn’t take it.
Watching millions are struck dumb.
Tries a front flip. Doesn’t make it.
Comes down hard upon his bum.