You can feel the tension rise

As kick off time draws near

Six virgin contestants probably

Wondering, what am I doin here.

Two smug faced judges,

One, a chef at least,

The other a green grocer, 

Both expecting a feast.

They sweat and scrape

Labour and toil

Fry and grill

Sautee and boil

To produce a plate

Of half raw stuff

And I want to scream

Enough is enough.

The tensions rise and 

There’s an anticapated thrill

That one of them will crack 

And wield a pan to kill.

It never happens

And I just know

When each is rejected

They will meekly go.

But I watch each episode

And I live in hope 

One of them will crack

Given enough rope

It still amazes me

That,year after year, 

 New victims queue up

To voluntarily appear.

I suppose, grudgingly

I admit its quite good

Like gladitiorial games

Without spilling blood.