Talk about the passion.

The judges tired and
Eventually went home.
If this was an eating contest, given the
Extent of all that you ingested,
You'd have won.

The grease-stained blue ribbon handed to you in a photo.

But no.

The judges grew listless.

It was the Brahms, the idea:
The mercury buoyant in your blood
When in the others
a leaden dearth sank in.

How did one win? It's obvious.
One studied, cheated, envied.

Tortured you with the lack
You lacked.