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