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Peter's a cabby on Adelaide roadsAnd in five o'clock traffic that's a hard road to hoeHunts for his family in a Holden with a two-way and meterAnd there's no air conditioning where he plies his tradeOn the green plate stand by the Rundle ArcadeSits and he waits for the privilege of driving you homeAnd there's no Mr. Muzak in the front of his cabJust a crackling voice dog-eared roadmapAnd a torch and a biro sliding around on the dashAnd your life's in his hand when they're gripped on the wheelThe water pump rattles and the Michelins squealHe's been driving for years sometimes it feels like foreverAnd knows very well your city of gardensHe'll take you from town drop you at MarsdenPeak hour: five minutes, if you think that's easy just try itHe can change a flat tyre in three minutes flatLubes his own car lying flat on his backTunes up his motor with a timing light in his earOh you could be at Woodville, you could be at StirlingSun may be burning, fog may be swirlingBut Peter's still driving all down that endless white lineCould be the morning, midday or midnightHe'll sell you a ride, his yellow roof lightTill a drag operator gives him a job to go home From Letras Mania