Take Out Food

I was really bored and feeling creative, so I told Hillary to pick anything for me to write a poem about. After several minutes of not caring she finally said take-out food. I laughed and made fun of her because we just ate and then scribbled this bad boy out in about 5 minutes.

I sat in your restaurant, don't mean to be rude, but I wouldn't even touch your take out food.
The chef picked his nose, the bathroom stinks, you say the burgers well done but the whole fucker's pink.
I'll take it to go, lay it on the road, watch the rats dig in, then their bellies explode.
It's hard to digest, me not being fare, but your food kills brain cells, so I don't fucking care.