Riding on the city of New Orleans,
Central, Monday morning rail
and twenty -five sacks of mail
All along the southbound odyssey,
the train pulls out of Kinkakee
And rolls along past houses,
Passing trains that have no names,
graveyards full of old black men
Good morning America, how are ya?
I said don't you know me,
I'm the train they call the
I'll be gone 500 miles when the
with the old men in the club car
ain't no one keepin' the score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumbling beneath the floor
And the sons of Pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their fathers' magic carpets
Mothers with their babes asleep
And the rhythm of the rails
They call the city Of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles
Changing cars in Memphis,
we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness
but all the towns and people seem
seem to fade into a bad dream
and the steel rail still ain't heard the news
the conductor sings his songs again
the passengers will please refrain