One didn’t integrate the star fruit sufficiently;
the salad was underdone; the vinaigrette proved thin;
the winner said his parents helped his proficiency.
The judges smiled at his offering and handed a check to him.

The world rocks with explosions prepared just right;
the chest worn bombs were of exquisite ingredients
blended with the perfect touch, proportions just right,
not too much, and not prepared with expedience.

The chefs thought of themselves as connoisseurs,
one up from the street, the other from the sewers.
One simply wished in a restaurant to invest,
the other to play with seventy-two virgins’ breasts.

One got applause and from the judges a nod;
the other — smithereens, nothing left, not even a clod.
And so young men, if you wish a career in baking,
get on the show Chopped and avoid bomb making.