I work at Hannaford

On the register is where I could be found

Cashing out customers all day round

The job stinks really bad

All the customers are always mad

They seem to think I know everything

I was only trained to do one thing

It also smells like a farm in there

As if the people don’t wash their hair

I really just want a new job

One where the fifth doesn’t cause a mob

Every month it’s the day I dread

The customers get their food stamps on their card that’s red

I hate working this day of the stamps

I would rather step on a pile of broken lamps

The customers roll their eyes in aggravation

I can only go so fast

I’m not the best cashier in the nation.