Peter The Cabby

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