Last Bus to Toronto

In 1942, Howard K. Smith, later the anchor of ABC's evening news, wrote Last Train from Berlin: An Eye-Witness Account of Germany at War, detailing his work from the Nazi capital for CBS radio. He had gotten out of the Reich on the last train that left Berlin before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

As I write this at around 7:30 PM on January 19, 2017, the last bus that would leave New York City and arrive in Toronto before noon tomorrow, leaving at 10:30, there are 5 seats left. The one before it is sold out.

People really are fleeing America.

This is written to the tune of "The City of New Orleans," written by Steve Goodman, best known by Arlo Guthrie.

Why Toronto and not Montreal, which is a better city and 100 miles closer? Because most Americans can't speak French.

Riding on the Last Bus to Toronto.
Port Authority, Thursday evening bail.
Fifty seats, all filled by restless riders.
Three rest stops, and hope to stay out of jail.

All along the northbound odyssey
the bus pulls across New Jersey
and rolls along through Lehigh Valley fields.

Passing towns with Indian names
Harry Chapin's banana plain
and the graveyards of rusted automobiles.

Goodbye, America, I'll miss ya.
Say, doncha know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the ride they call the Last Bus to Toronto.
I'll be gone 500 miles before my ride is done.

Checking e-mails before the Syracuse stop.
Dunkin Donuts, watch the lattes pour.
See the screen with CNN a-showin'
some stuff that makes our sad hearts hit the floor.

And the folks who wanted Bernie
and who worked for Hillary
get back on that smelly Greyhound made of steel.

Think when approach Buffalo
Trump's fans are like Juggalos:
They are psycho clowns, and fear is all we feel.

Goodbye, America, I'll miss ya.
Say, doncha know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the ride they call the Last Bus to Toronto.
I'll be gone 500 miles before my ride is done.

Morning on the Last Bus to Toronto.
Niagara Falls, it greets a brand-new day.
Almost home, we'll be there by lunchtime
as Customs men process us, to Queen Elizabeth Way.

But all the folks left behind seem
to be stuck in a bad dream.
The Deplorables still ain't heard the news:

The jobs you lost will not return.
The wall won't halt the ozone burn.
Our land's got the disappearing freedom blues!

Goodbye, America, I'll miss ya.
Say, doncha know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the ride they call the Last Bus to Toronto.
I'll be gone 500 miles before my ride is done.