by Nick Gisburne
The Sunday Smash, a brutal, savage sport
Is banned; instead, Bionics duke it out
But advertising revenues fall short
The numbers do not lie or lead to doubt
Who cares if metal monsters live or die?
Who forfeits when computers hit the deck?
If engineers are fixing what they fry
Who thrills to see a robot break its neck?
But every mind is mesmerised by blood
The thought that in a moment life could end
Irrational, despicable, the flood
Of rage is one on which we all depend
They bring it back; the murder makes the game
On Sundays nothing else is quite the same
