Toronto Enough Tonight

My adam’s apple is a prickly pear and my lungs are full of hot air.
All the fingers of those goddam industry types want to shake hands with my windpipe.
So break out the finest small town sour grapes, crushed into a red, red wine and wrapped up in red tape.
In the city of my first breath, where the hopeful die a slow death, my mother worked the E.R. and my father rode those streetcars, and we’ve come to audition for Queen Street politicians, but I’m not (not quite) Toronto enough tonight.
Well, they keep on giving me the bad news first and from there it just gets worse.
You’re counting your blessings or you’re singing the blues while you’re waiting for the good news.
Now the hand that feeds me is on the dinner plate tonight.
They told me to stay hungry, but I lost my appetite.
So I bite my tongue before I curse this centre of the universe.
We all sing our public verse, then we ride out in a private hearse.
So let the congregation come to Yonge Street and Jerusalem, but I’m not (not quite) Toronto enough tonight.