African Child, Masterchef Poem by Phil Charters

Limed,
In a ditch, a child,
In her death does lie
Hapless, skeletal people
Wander by
The sound of mothers who cry
Children die.
Feebled, fevered voices
Sing a famines dirge,
Lament do they,
This rainless scourge.
Suffer, child of Africa
To die a death so cruel
Forsaken by the falling rains
And affluent people who rule.
O, how mine eyes, long do weep
For tormented people
In suffering deep
Ah the thought of troubled sleep
A mind consumed, by this tragic scene
Switch the view on my widescreen
Buffoons in cravats, fancy dress
Plentiful food, Masterchef
Critiqued,
In a kitchen, a girl
In her failure, does cry
Jubilant, happy competitors
Stand near by
Her mother cries
Nobody dies
Strong altiloquent voices
Speak a critics prose
Buffoons, garnished
Scented, rose.
Suffer, child of emulation
To cry your failure cruel
Forsaken by your talent
And pompous judges who rule.

O, how mine eyes long do weep
For an African child's
eternal sleep
It cuts me deep.
Yet still buffoons, hauty, speak-
' 'Tis beauty here, my eyes desire
Symmetric, poetic, colours jell
My taste buds to inspire
This dish presented, so very well
Textured smooth, flavours, separate'
Just a morsel, from this plate-
A child suffers a cruel fate
Of empathy bereft
An African child, Masterchef.