Luyện nghe bài hát Peter The Cabby

Peter's a cabby on roads
And in o'clock traffic that's a hard road to hoe
Hunts for his family in a Holden with a two-way and
And there's no air conditioning where he his trade
On the green plate stand by the Rundle
Sits and he waits for the privilege of driving you

And there's no Mr. Muzak in the of his cab
Just a crackling voice dog-eared
And a torch and a biro sliding around on the
And life's in his hand when they're gripped on the wheel
The water rattles and the Michelins squeal
He's been driving for years sometimes it feels forever

And knows very well your city of
He'll you from town drop you at Marsden
Peak hour: five minutes, if you think that's just try it
He can change a flat tire in minutes flat
Lubes his own car flat on his back
Tunes up his motor with a timing in his ear

Oh you could be at Woodville, you could be at
Sun may be burning, fog may be
But Peter's still driving all down that endless white
Could be the morning, or midnight
sell you a ride, his yellow roof light
Till a drag gives him a job to go home