A man sits on a stool, bored and uneasy, listening to a song that has been played so often it has lost whatever charm it once had. The poem's own language mimics this wearing-out: lines keep repeating their last words in the next line, as if the poem were stuck in a groove, too. He is appalled by the song, and he wonders if he could fix it with a few small changes, but the attempt only makes the cliché sillier.
Time feels like a slot machine, spinning cherry, orange, lemon, until the people around him blur into nothing, and he becomes a blur too. The speaker seems to feel a dry, tired amusement, with a little sadness underneath. The mood is flat and trapped, almost hypnotic. Then the pace changes. He picks up the hat he never wore there and leaves. The title hints at the idea: when life hands you sour things, you take something and go. The exit feels quiet, sudden, and a bit like relief.