The slowest race that is the queue,

The lucky ones are but a few.

I’m stuck at the back no end in sight,

Pushing on with silent might.

The increasing sound of the cash tills beep,

As closer to the checkout I creep.

A basket hits me in the knee,

Held by a blue rinsed old granny.

I force a smile like a ticked off clown,

The grumpy old mare just gives a frown.

I only want a pack of smokes,

I didn’t ask for prods and pokes.

The guy in front has a trolley full,

Oh come on man now that’s just bull!!

Do you really need ten tins of fruit,

And 16 pints of milk to boot?

I’m at the front now the head in line,

The next till free is bloody mine!!

I place my order with the cashier,

Keep the change i’m outta here!!