Just Let the Oil Cool by Scott Farquhar follows a weary truckie whose plans for a shower and bed are interrupted by a service that still needs doing.
Back at Gum Creek, the dogs announce his arrival, the bonnet goes up and the beer fridge offers a little encouragement. A quick sit-down while the oil cools soon becomes the easiest part of the job.
Just Let the Oil Cool
By Scott Farquhar
Last load’s done, thank fuck for that,
I straighten up and adjust me hat.
Flick the right-hand blinker, point her for home,
won’t be long till the night’s me own.
A hot bloody shower, a big comfy bed,
wash off the dust and rest me head.
No loading ramps, no cattle to chase,
just me stretched out with a smile on me face.
After dodging wallaby six thousand and two,
Gum Creek finally comes into view.
I breathe a sigh, then remember what’s due
ah, fuck me dead, there’s a service to do.
If I’m leaving early, it’s a late one tonight,
so much for thinking I’d timed that right.
That gap between loads I was hoping to keep
has swallowed me shower and half of me sleep.
I idle through the gate, creep round the bend,
quiet as a mouse or so I pretend.
Ah, I call bullshit, that’s taking the piss,
you’d sleep through a war before sleeping through this.
The crates are rattling, the Horton lets roar,
dust rolling past every window and door.
Them house dogs knew I was heading their way
just after Ball’s house half a postcode away.
They’re barking like mad as I swing round the shed.
“Yeah, thanks for that, wake everyone in bed.
Could’ve kept it between us, but no, fair enough
tell the whole fucking district I’ve finished me stuff.”
Pull in over the pit, shut her down for the night,
drop the bullbar, stand back in the light.
Clasp me hands with me head slightly tucked:
“Lord, Heavenly Father, let nothing be fucked.
“No leaks and no cracks, no expensive surprise,
nothing that brings bloody tears to me eyes.
And if you’re inclined to answer me here,
please tell me someone’s restocked the beer.”
Up goes the bonnet, I peer underneath,
preparing to swear through a set of clenched teeth.
Then a look in the Engel ah, now we’re in luck,
full of the good stuff! There is hope for this truck.
“Cheers for that, Lord, you’ve come through tonight,
I’ll handle the service, you’ve done your bit right.”
Just a can or two while the oil loses heat,
be bloody irresponsible not to take a seat.
First one goes down without touching the side,
second one settles the dust from the ride.
Third one’s a pleasure, fourth one’s a treat,
fifth one confirms I’m attached to the seat.
I glance at the bonnet. “Righto, better start.”
Me head’s made a plan, but me arse won’t take part.
I lean forward once, get me feet on the floor—
then think, “While I’m up, might as well grab one more.”
The grease gun’s waiting, the filters are near,
I’m making good progress on draining the beer.
Got all the right gear, got a pit and a light—
just lacking a bloke who gives two fucks tonight.
Seven cans later, still parked in me chair,
the truck hasn’t moved and I’m halfway to there.
Look down at me watch two-thirty? Get fucked!
I’ve been here for hours and not touched the truck.
“Ah well, fuck it, that’s enough for tonight,
I’ll get up early and do the job right.”
A wonderful plan, and I’m pleased to report
I believe every word with the beer’s full support.
Grab two more tins for the road to me room,
leave the bonnet up; I’ll be back there soon.
It’s a fair sort of walk, twenty metres at least
best take provisions, I’m hardly a beast.
Tomorrow I’ll wake with a head full of pain,
and call tonight’s bloke every name in me brain.
He’s left me the service, the grease and the tools
but give him some credit: that fucking oil’s cool.
Keeping The Verse Alive
Just Let the Oil Cool is shared with permission from Scott Farquhar through Keeping The Verse Alive, Country Campfire’s bush poetry preservation project.
By preserving poems like this, we’re helping ensure the stories, humour and characters of country Australia continue to be enjoyed for generations to come.
Scott Farquhar
Cattle Trucker • Bush Poet • Storyteller
Originally from Adelaide and now based in Katherine, Scott Farquhar spent ten years behind the wheel of cattle trucks. His bush poetry draws on the places he has travelled, the people he has met and life on the road, bringing a truckie’s perspective and a natural sense of humour to Australian verse.
Poems, recitals, photographs, stories and original works remain the property of their original creator and are shared by Country Campfire with permission.
