I was short of a dollar, so I called on a bloke
Whose pay wasn't good, his gear was a joke
You can't pick and choose when you're down on your luck
And your only profession is driving a truck
So we talked for a spell and he gave me a job
This cunning old guy known as Bed Axle Bob
The rig which he owned was an F-Model Mack
And the run that I drew was the Territory Track
Bob's freight was the kind which no other would cart
The places he sent me would just break your heart
From Dead Ends in Balmain to Drill Rigs out west
Where the sands of the desert put your gear to the test
But I battled along and I shifted
And I was short of a dollar, so I called on a bloke
Who had some weight
Old Bed Axle whinged every time I ran late
Small wonder if you saw the smoke from the pump
And saw half the metal that I found in the sump
Oh, that's right
The trailers were buckled, the tires were worn
The tops which he owned were tattered and torn
The dogs and the chains were all rusty and joined
Oh, it was easy to see
How his nickname was coined
Every axle was bent and the dolly was cracked
The kingpins were strained from the loads they had hacked
I did what I could, mate, yes, I really tried
And old Bed Axle whinged till the day that he died
He did, yeah
I'm sitting here at home and I'm out of a job
No longer employed by old Bed Axle

Bed Axle Bob
A note from the lawyer
I read what's inside
Seems I own a road train now since old Bed Axle died
Yes, I'm heir to the fortune of Bed Axle Bob
I need a good driver if you need a job
You can drive this old rig to the scrap dealer's dump
Complete with Bed Axles and that smoky fuel pump
Complete with Bed Axles and smoky fuel pump
You can drive this old rig to the scrap dealer's dump
And leave it there