Inside

You have always succumbed to the gap-toothed grin, the cheese-beard, the slightly soggy thing that might have been potato bread before a frustrated line cook stuck olive slices in the top and made it a face.
You have never wanted to, but the siren song of the ham calls you. five slices of ham, one singlet of processed cheese product, kept under the heat lamp until it droops into surrender, a dead-eyed olive stare with a swipe of our proprietary sauce on a toasted potato bun.
Bow, liege. swear fealty to your yumbo sire.
"I am my yumbo's..."
"...and my yumbo is mine,"whispers the counter jockey.
There is a machine that would be making frozen lime rickeys, rattling away. It is churning nothing, empty air. A lime rickey would distract from the purity of the yumbo. There can be no pretenders to his princely throne.

Consider:

return