Bad music on the radio
Plants in the lobby that never grow,
Planning our lunches by nine in the morning,
Psycho-dramas erupting without proper warning,
Accumulating jimmy clips
attached to the beloved money,
Of customers who think they?re funny,
but can't fill out deposit slips.

The day just flies by with nobody to thank,
But the flood of illegals with checks from our bank.
Ten thousand dollars has lost all its meaning,
It's just a bunch of dirty papers.
The girls squeal about the weeks latest capers,
And the head cashier is compulsively cleaning.

With boxes of rolled up nickels and dimes,
And crumpled, brown, one-dollar bills,

A miserly woodsman descends from the hills
To complain about these changing times.

Old biddies who want free money orders
Will trample each other for the brand new state quarters.
People inquiring on wires and transfers
Glare at the ladies in customer service,
As the minutes tick by they get more and more nervous,
With too many questions and not enough answers.

Innundated with currencies of 20 different kinds,
In a whirlwind of prime rates and dividends,
But just as suddenly it all ends,
And we close the tired drive-through blinds.