Double Whopper

Double whopper, no mayo, no ketchup.
Heavy mustard, heavy pickle, no fries.
(I'm not that bad)
 
Two or three times a week, at least, I eat this meal.
Fat, decrepit, half blind, cane in hand.
They see me coming, it's damn near done.
No words. Ring it up. Pay.
Easy.

Three decades now, I make journey to this king.
Only occasionally before, now much more often.
It's close, it's convenient.
 (They don't let me drive anymore).

Yeah.

Free refills, you know.
I sit.
And read.
Sometimes.
I write.

His majesty is always there for me.
But still.
Too bad, there's no Whataburger.