Why I Live Out Here
You're out to catch the horses, in the ghostly grey of dawn,
while dreaming of your bed, where you were cosy and warm.
The mongrel strikes the bit and bucks no sooner you hit the saddle,
then it's hang on for dear life, 'cause by-jesus he can rattle.
Then load them on the truck and head out to a bore,
where you sit your horse in the wind while freezing to the core.