| Said the old working bullock to the draught horses mate
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| The yokes, chains and swingbars have gone out of date
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| Just look at the dust clouds and smoke trailing back
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| Where once we pulled wagons, there’s trucks on the track
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| Trucks on the track
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| There’s seldom a bush road that’s not felt the trail
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| Of some big prime mover that leave us for dead
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| Stiff shouldered and foot-sore our chains never slack
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| And our ticket for freedom, those trucks on the track
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| Those broad smiling faces of the gear pushing men
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| Is the trade mark of truckies that I recall when
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| The face of the teamster turned purple and black
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| With rage but he’d welcome these trucks on the track
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| The draught horse replied as he shook his old mane
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| Those days I’ve no yearning to see them again
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| Old whips made of green hide that stung ribs and back
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| Hang idle because of those trucks on the track
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| Trucks on the track
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| Instrumental
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| So just let us nibble this young tender grass
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| We’re both pensioned off and are silver and brass
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| Way back though the ages a man hunt his pack
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| Now they haul half the World those trucks on the track
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| So spray out the bull dust the trucks must get through
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| There’s someone out back mate 'pending on you
|
| A yard of prime cattle, or a wool clip to stack
|
| The kings of the road, those trucks on the track
|
| Trucks on the track
|
| So just let us nibble this young tender grass
|
| We’re both pensioned off and are silver and brass
|
| Way back though the ages a man hunt his pack
|
| Now they haul half the World those trucks on the track
|
| So spray out the bull dust the trucks must get through
|
| There’s someone out back mate 'pending on you
|
| A yard of prime cattle, or a wool clip to stack
|
| The kings of the road, those trucks on the track |