ramblings and things

1,019,717 poems read


 



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.



 



Comment On This Poem ---
Master Chef, Amateur