BEANS

On a far western run a lone driver picked up a bloke on the road,
pushing a spread Freighter, Thermo, good ten per cent overload.
He’d come up the back ‘cross the Dawson, was going right up to the Mount,
had a box full of yippies and dexies, been popping and not keeping count.

The hiker looked down at the console and then to the driver he said,
“There’s a mighty big load on those bogies, the needle’s way up in the red”.
But the driver ignored conversation so the hiker just sat back and thought
“I wonder how old is this feller, and how many fights has he fought?

I reckon he’d be about forty or so, hands on the wheel show the pain.
Hell, this is no way to be earning his dough, his face and his eyes tell of strain”.
About half a mile further northward, no bends in the road and quite flat,
no stock and no features, no nothing, the hiker was taken aback

when the driver backed right off the pedal, started to drop through the cogs,
heard the hiss and the clunk of the air brakes, felt immediate drag of the dogs.
Then the Mack dropped right down to a standstill, the driver looked hard left and right,
and pulled out a pouch of tobacco, rolled one and got it alight.

So the hiker he said to the truckie, “I know this is gonna sound dumb,
but why in the hell are we stopped here?” The answer “The Flyer should come.
If you listen you’ll hear the bells ringing, look at the flashing red light,
goes express right from Brisbane to Alice. I often see trains late at night”.

Then the Thermo went back up the gearbox, the needle went back in the red.
As the hiker went back to his wondering, the truckie then quietly said
“I’ve been pushing a truck for ten years now, once had a wife and a kid,
got picked, too, for Interstate football, but look what those bloody beans did.

I needed a whole lotta dough once, then somebody gave me a few,
but you build up a kind of resistance, it’s strange what the yippie beans do.
They’ll keep your eyes open for ages, ‘cos time for a truckie is dough
and after a while they get at you but still you take some and keep on the go.

And you find that you’re getting dependent but dunno you’re wrecking your health,
and it’s strange how you don’t see the answers, too busy chasing the wealth.
How old do you reckon I am, mate? I’m thirty, the end of next week
but I look over forty, I know it”. He stopped, and no more did he speak.

When the truckie pulled into a roadhouse, the hiker said “Thanks for the ride”,
then stood there and watched as the young man walked like an old man inside.
With a shower, a smoke and some coffee, some food and the hiker walked on.
As he drifted he thought of the truckie, far off in the darkness and gone.

And he pondered on man’s inhumanity, to others as well as himself,
how the dearest of all our possessions is mental and physical health.
Then he wondered out loud if all truckies knew how much physical strife,
the money lust, yippies and long hours could shorten a thirty year life.

FIVE LETTER FOUR LETTER WORD

The other night when I got in from out the back of Bourke,
I left the rig on the road edge, outside the place of work.
The gates were shut for the night and for me the blokes didn’t stay
and I’d had the strangest feeling that something was wrong all the way.

Damn cold and blowing and raining and I was about ten hours late.
The wife was supposed to pick me up, don’t blame her, she didn’t wait.
So I hiked a ride to the freeway with a bloke in a green MG,
he dropped me off about half a mile from where I wanted to be.

I cut through the shopping centre in the cold and the rain and the fog
and down at the end of my street I found my little old mongrel dog.
He shouldn’t be out on the road and so I grabbed him and carried him back,
no lights in the house or the driveway, and no chimney smoke from the stack.

The key was still under the doormat, no food on the stove slowly cooking,
the house was cold, there was no one around so the dog and I went looking.
PInned on the bed near her pillow was a piece of paper, a note,
so the old dog and I, we read it, and this is what she wrote

“For fifteen years I’ve loved you, but hardly a sentence I’ve heard
unless it’s on trucks and their problems Truck’s a five letter four letter word”.

Now me and old Dog, we’re trucking on, we drive from state to state.
I haul the loads, and cover the miles with old Dog as my mate.
Maybe now I’m better off, it’s ages since I’ve heard
that woman’s voice that used to say, “Truck’s a five letter four letter word”.

RIGID FREIGHTERS

Foggy road and sidelights, driver sleeping.
Pulled up in a truck bay, minutes sweeping.
Loneliness and mileage, noise of braking.
Pushing time for money, eyes are aching.

White line flicking constant, keep on guiding.
Corners, up and down hills, still we’re riding.
Quick haul overnighter, really trying.
Reaching for the border, racing, flying.

Volvo cabin high up, heater blowing.
Head and fog lights glaring, keep on going.
Mist is getting thicker, wipers slashing.
Passing cars all speed by, headlights flashing.

Streetlights and a corner, someone walking.
Diesel for a background, wireless talking.
“Weather for the morning, fine and sunny”.
Sydney for the daylight, and the money.

Docking and unloading, tarps untying.
Sleeping till the darkness, back to flying.
The lonely overnighter, quickly, hurry.
The road the same but different, worry, worry.

A necessary service, rigid freighters.
The loneliest of all Interstaters.

SMITHY’S TRANSPORT

I drive for Smithy’s Transport, an Inter 90 bogie.
The truck is just like Smith himself, a rusty worn out fogey.
On Monday morning last week, old Smithy said, “Hey, Ross,
my young bloke is driving yours. You jockey, I’m the boss”.

I showed him how to back out, and where to go to load up.
He revved the diesel, dropped the clutch and chewed the flaming road up.
I reckoned there was something wrong the way he used the clutch
so asked him if he’d drove before. He answered, “No, not much”.

We put a load of stock feed on, he said the ropes were tight.
I didn’t check the tray myself and hoped that she’d be right.
So, real rough on the gearbox, and mostly down on power
off we went along the road for just about an hour.

Now I knew this bend was coming and I told him hard to brake it
but the young fool didn’t listen, and neither did we make it.
The coppers came to see me, and they said, “Your truck’s a mess,
we want to know what happened”. I said, “You’d better guess”.

When Smithy came to see me, my leg was in a cast.
He waited till the doctors and the nurses had gone past,
and then he said, so quiet like, “I kicked his bum, real hard
and I’ve bought another truck for you, it’s sitting in the yard”.

I had visions of a Kenworth, or a Volvo, or a Mack,
and no one else can drive it, mate, until the day I’m back.
But like I said, old Smithy is a tightwad and a wailer
so he’d bought a re built 90, and had straightened out my trailer.

Yer can’t win, not with old Smithy……

UNFULFILLED

I remember when I was a boy and lying in bed of a night,
the sound of trucks on the road.
How I could hear when nothing else moved the power of big diesel rigs
with revs dropping under the load.

After a while of hearing the sounds and seeing the semis go by
I knew what it was, by the note.
Every truck made it’s own kind of noise in the cutting and over the top,
and I’d change down too, by remote.

I always though that when I grew up, that I’d go up the roads too
like those I heard of a night.
I’d get my own Reiver or Knocker or ‘R’ with thirty two foot on the back
or a three decker crate with a White.

Now I am older, the kids and a dog, and nothing has come of my dreams,
I’m tied to a house and a wife.
I lie here at night and still hear the sounds of giant rigs hauling their loads
and wish for those trucks as my life.

IT’S YOUR TURN

CH:
He said, just before he stepped out, “It’s your turn….”.

Tandem steering works well, and it sends
good directions to the four wheels in the bends.
Overnighters fly low and they need
to handle well in corners, ‘cos of speed.

I’ve taken them to Sydney, and I know
to keep awake the best way is to GO…
I did one trip as jockey, for a mate.
He really pushed the diesel, running late.

I offered once to take her, for a spell,
told me not to worry, “Doing well….”.
Looking at my watch showed time had crept,
the heater made me drowsy, so I slept.

Somewhere in the mountains, on a curve
loose dirt on the tarmac, did a swerve,
got her back but lost her, once or twice.
Reached across and woke me, very nice.

I saw his door was open, didn’t think
she was heading for a drop off, on the brink.
“If you can’t control a slide out, better learn,”
he said, just before he stepped out, “it’s your turn….”.

AS LONG AS MONEY’S THERE

Driving for a company where bosses are remote
and don’t know all their drivers really gets my goat.

‘Cos maintenance gets sloppy and bosses hardly care
for problems of their drivers, as long as money’s there.

I used to push a Bedford, bulk milk tanker tray,
it really was a downer, troubles every day.

Pulled up at a STOP sign, middle of last week,
coppers in a Falcon heard the truck brakes shriek.

They turned their flashing lights on, I pulled her off the road.
We had a conversation, and then they checked the load.

They asked a few more questions, I told them all the facts
so one said That’s a downer, this Bedford gets the axe.

Trailer brakes, to be adjusted; mirrors, two, to be replaced;
excessive smoke, eliminated; sidelights, headlights, aced.

Notice how the tanker crabs, left side spring bolt’s gone,
stoplight globes and mudflaps too their list went on and on.

One tested out the vacuum tank then got out with the shakes
Listen, driver, don’t you know you’ve got no bloody brakes?

The other checked the steering, and found a lot of slop,
they got right underneath her, thought they’d never stop.

Finally they finished up, stuck the yellow label on,
said Here’s your Notice of Repair, now tow the unit home.

I rang the workshop and the boss, told them of the fuss
their rotten tanker got me in, they all said Don’t blame us.

The workshop’s there to fix things, just drop the unit in.
Big Deal a stick of gelignite’s the only way I’ll win…..