Peter The Cabby

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Oh, Peter's a cabby on Adelaide roads
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And in five o'clock traffic that's a hard road to hoe
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And he hunts for his family in a Holden with a two-way and meter
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And there's no air conditioning where he plies his trade
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On the green plate stand by the Rundle Arcade
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Sits and he waits for the privilege of driving you home

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And there's no Mr. Muzak in the front of his cab
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Just a crackling voice dog-eared roadmap
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And a torch and a biro sliding around on the dash

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And your life's in his hand when they're gripped on the wheel
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The water pump rattles and the Michelins squeal
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He's been driving for years sometimes it feels like forever

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And knows very well your city of gardens
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He'll take you from town drop you at Marsden
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Peak hour: five minutes, if you think that's easy just try it

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He can change a flat tire in three minutes flat
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Lubes his own car lying flat on his back
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Tunes up his motor with a timing light in his ear

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Oh you could be at Woodville, you could be at Stirling
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Sun may be burning, fog may be swirling
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But Peter's still driving all down that endless white line

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Could be the morning, midday or midnight
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He'll sell you a ride, his yellow roof light
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Till a drag operator gives him a job to go home

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