You robotic machine,

you speak to me,

transfer me from this miserable queue.

Socialite I appear to be,

but am not really.

Then you bug me,

have I my own bag ?

have I scanned my clubcard ?

do I have coupons ?

how would I like to pay ?

yet your manners outweigh,

the human robots on the other till.

Out witted you,

I have,

to get the right change,

enter your pennies first,

ideal for us on a low budget.

At least you spare my shame,

if I haven't enough to pay,

as I scan my produce real slow you know.

Thanks for your friendship self serve.

Then you scoff all my money,

like a pig,

would swill out his trough,

@poetic rations,

I do hope my poem is good enough.

Then I walk away,

one satisfied customer,

see you next week,

when I come out to play !