Peter's a cabby on Adelaide roads
|
And in five o'clock traffic that's a hard road to hoe
|
Hunts for his family in a Holden with a two-way and meter
|
And there's no air conditioning where he plies his trade
|
On the green plate stand by the Rundle Arcade
|
Sits and he waits for the privilege of driving you home
|
|
And there's no Mr. Muzak in the front of his cab
|
Just a crackling voice dog-eared roadmap
|
And a torch and a biro sliding around on the dash
|
And your life's in his hand when they're gripped on the wheel
|
The water pump rattles and the Michelins squeal
|
He's been driving for years sometimes it feels like forever
|
|
And knows very well your city of gardens
|
He'll take you from town drop you at Marsden
|
Peak hour: five minutes, if you think that's easy just try it
|
He can change a flat tire in three minutes flat
|
Lubes his own car lying flat on his back
|
Tunes up his motor with a timing light in his ear
|
|
Oh you could be at Woodville, you could be at Stirling
|
Sun may be burning, fog may be swirling
|
But Peter's still driving all down that endless white line
|
Could be the morning, midday or midnight
|
He'll sell you a ride, his yellow roof light
|
Till a drag operator gives him a job to go home
|
|
-----------------
|
Peter The Cabby
|
| Redgum |
