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Fibre glass

de Florence Sinclair

Its so hard now to try and make a buck,
Workin' seven days behind the wheel of your truck.
Listening to Slim as the hours slip away,
As you clock up the miles along the Newell highway.

Another load of steel, about 26 ton,
From the Sunshine plant to Brisbane, well he's makin' the run.
Changin' blown tyres in 40 degrees,
Or spinnin' out on black ice just out of Moree.

And they're still ridin' that line,
And home may be so far behind.
But they're doing what they really love,
'Cause that diesel was brewed in their blood.

My father Peter is a truck driver too,
And his father Cannonball, well, he had a few.
They talked of giving up, of doing other things,
It cuts you to the core when a mate dies in their rig.

And they're still ridin' that line,
And home may be so far behind.

But they're doing what they really love,
'Cause that diesel was brewed in their blood.

Now ol' Cannonball rides the trails in the sky,
And like a guardian angel, he's there by my side.

And they're still ridin' that line,
And home may be so far behind.
But they're doing what they really love,
'Cause that diesel was brewed in their blood.
And they're still ridin' that line,
And home may be so far behind.
But they're doing what they really love,
'Cause that diesel was brewed in their blood.
'Cause that diesel was brewed in their blood.

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