Like a million little toasters
All the toast that we make
All the impolite customers
All the crap we take.
Oh so many different vocations
We could have occupied
Instead of working for peanuts
At this cheezy dive.

Somehow we found each other
By the backroom wall
Somehow we keep on working
Cleaning up the floor with a mop and broom.

CHORUS

I don't want to be a manager
At this nowhere dead end job
I don't like the new shift boss
Who is a big fat brain-dead slob
I don't want to be the Employee of the Month
And wear this stupid plastic name-tag
I want to quit this job at Toast on a Lance
And work where they put food in a bag, but I need cash.
But, I need cash.

Somehow I'll get a job
Where they'll treat me right
But for now I'm a mop jockey
Serving urban blight for $1.50 an hour.

REPEAT CHORUS

I want to quit at Toast on a Lance
And put food in a bag, for some real cash

REPEAT AD NAUSEUM