 Riding on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central, Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail
All along the south-bound odyssey
The train pulls out at Kankakee
And rolls along past houses, farms and fields
Passing trains that have no names
And freight yards, full of old black men
And the grave-yards of the rusted automobiles
Good morning America, how are you
Say don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
And I'll be gone five-hundred miles when the day is done
Dealing cards with the old men in the club car
Penny a point, ain't no one keeping score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels grumbling 'neath the floor
And the sons of Pullman porters, and the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet, made of steel
Mothers with their babies asleep, rocking to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
Good morning America, how are you
Say don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five-hundred miles when the day is done
Night time on the City of New Orleans
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Halfway home, we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness, rolling down to the sea
But all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad dream
And the steel rails still ain't heard the news
The conductor sings his songs again
The passengers will please refrain
This train has got the disappearing railroad blues
Goodnight America, how are you
Say don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five-hundred miles when the day is done
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