I was short of a dollar so I called on a bloke,
Who's 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 ah drivin' a truck.
So we talked for a spell and he gave me a job,
This cunning ole guy known as Bent-Axle Bob,
The rig which he owned was an F model Mack,
And the run that I drew was the Territory track.
Bob's brakes 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 gears to the test.
But I battled along and I shifted some weight,
Old Bent-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 yeah, that's right
The trailers were buckled, the tyres were worn,
The tarps which he owned were tattered and torn,
The dogs and the chains were all rusty and joined,
Oh was easy to see how his nickname was coined
Every axle was bent and the dolly was cracked
The kingpins was strained from the loads they had hacked,
I did what I could mate, yes I really tried,
Old Bent Axle whinged 'til the day that he died.
(He did yeah)
I'm sittin' here at home and I'm out of a job,
No longer employed by old Bent Axle Bob,
A note from the lawyer, I read what's inside,
Seems I own a road train now that old Bent Axle died.
Yes I'm heir to the fortune of Bent Axle Bob,
I needed a good driver an' you need a job,
You can drive this old rig to the scrap dealers dump,
Complete with bent axles and that smokey fuel pump.
Complete with bent axles and smokey fuel pump,
You can drive this old wreck to the scrap dealers dump,
And leave it there

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN