Riding on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central, Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors
And twenty four sacks of mail
All along the southbound odyssey
The train rolls out of Kankakee
And moves along past houses, farms and fields
Passing trains that have no name
And switch yards full of old black men
And graveyards full of 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
I'll be gone five hundred miles
When the day is done
Dealing cards with the old men on the club car
Penny a point, nobody's keeping score
Hey, now pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels a rumbling neath the floor
And the sons of Pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their daddies' magic carpet made of steel
Mothers with their babes 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 and we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rolling down to the sea
And all the towns and people seem
To fade into a bad dream
And the steel rail still ain't heard the news
The conductor sings his song again
The passengers will please refrain
This train's got the disappearing railroad blues
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
I'll be gone five hundred miles
When the day is done