Poem for Casey

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Top Chef three that day;
The score stood three all with but one competition left to play;
And then, when Hung did well at first, and Dale then did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the viewers of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, convinced of obvious results. The rest
Clung to that hope which "springs eternal in the human breast;"
They thought, If only Casey could but get a whack at that,
We'd put up even money now, that her food wouldn’t fall flat.
But Hung proceeded Casey, as did also late blooming Dale,
And the former was a gourmet and the latter couldn’t fail;
So, upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's being where it’s at.
But Hung let out a questionable plate, to the wonderment of all,
And Dale, the dark horse, took a step backwards though didn’t fall,
And when the plates were lifted and judges tasted what occurred,
There was Hung safe in second, and Dale a-holdin' onto third.
Then from eight throats and more there rose a lusty yell,
It rumbled through the hilltops, it rattled down the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and knocked altitude quite flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing with the “fat”.
There was ease in Casey's manner as she stepped into her place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,
And when, responding to the cheers, she lightly set out her plate,
No stranger to the pork belly 'twas Casey, feeling great.
Ten thousand eyes were on her as she talked about her dish;
Five thousand tongues applauded as her her ponytail went swish.
Then, while the writhing judges ground the meat within their teeth,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, some stress hidden underneath.
And now the looks of disgust came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching in helpless stature there,
Close by the sturdy waiter turn heel and sped --
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Overcooked," the judges said.
From the blogs, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill them; kill the judges!" shouted someone from the chat;--
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey wouldn’t stand for that.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
She stilled the rising tumult; her cooking would go on;
He signaled to Colicchio, and once more the accent flew;
“You can come on down to Texas, Tom, and I will cook for you."
"Robbed," cried the maddened bloggers, and the echo answered "Robbed,"
But one doe-eyed look from Casey, and the multitude was awed.
They saw her face grow soft and calm; they saw her sadness drain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let this stop her from cooking again.
The pout was gone from Casey's lip; her teeth were clenched in smile;
She pounds the cruel ending with a true competitors style.
And now the judges hold the win, and soon will let it go,
But the prize will not be given to our little Casey though.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere women are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy on Top Chef -- mighty Casey was cut out.