All
the neighbours next door are worried
Their social life's always a lie
They've just put in a spire
And we see a new car in their drive
And they dream of that long-earned retirement
When they'll pack up and fly like the breeze
And they'll travel around and see this big
land Just like I've been doing for years
That's the great life that I chose In
my rambling shoes I've been travelling
And stretching my toes
Near
the old Southern Cross I've been my own boss
And I tell you, mate, that'll do me
Tell you, mate, that'll do me
They jump
in their chariots each morning Then join the rat race once again
To the same dreary office where the same telephone waits for them
They can't wait for that lunch break on
Friday When the cares of the world disappear
Their Saturday gun,
but I beg your pardon Sunday's mostly all clear
But that's not the life that I chose I've
lived in the open and followed the long,
endless road
Near
the old Southern Cross I've been my own boss
And I tell you,
mate,
that'll do me That'll do me any time
Like the four winds above me I travel and start to unwind
Let me howl at the moon where a man has some room
But I tell you,
mate,
that'll do me Tell you,
mate,
that'll do me
Tell you, mate, that'll do me
Thank you very much, everyone.
Thank you very much indeed.
Here's a truck song from one of our albums.
We're going to use the banjo pretty strongly in this one.
So anyway, it's one we call 300 Horses.
Here we go right now.