That's Bob by the roar of his Maxodyne and the beam of his big bull light
That's Dave by the number of gears he don't drop and call in his long-nosed white
They're pushing and trying to make some miles with their big double loads of freight
Like flowering steel and tractor pots from Brisbane and interstate
The windows will rattle in the towns tonight and the road tax man may wait
The boss of the motel may curse and swear at the noise that the truck is making
Hate the truckies for making the noise and din which awakens him from his sleep
The road tax boy wants to watch his step and the squatter best watch his sheep
Six of pimpies rigged by an old trans guy The snow and old air away dawn
With the brambles flagged which both now fly They'll boil up a few miles on
Oh I remember the smell of transmission oils and the road ranger wines in my ears
The chatter of fogt, box turnaround sticks I can feel in the way that they are fuckin faces
model steers. My sight is gone and I can go on at my job on the big road trains. But the blokes I
knew are still jogging through past my home on the western plains. I can lie at night in my
restless bunk and envisage the smoke from the stack. As my mates roll by doing jobs like I
used to do on the western track.
That's Bob by the roar of his Maxodine and the beam of his big bull light.
That's Dave by the number of gears he don't drop.
And call in his long-nosed wife.