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 out on the
Southbound
Odyssey, the train pulls out of
Kankakee, rolls past the houses,
farms and fields
Passing towns that have no name, graveyards full of old black men,
the graveyards of rusted automobiles
Singing good morning
America, how are you?
Don't you know me,
I'm your native son
I'm the train that called the city of
New
Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles
when day is done
Dealin' cards to the old
men in the club car
Penny a point and no
one's keepin' score
Past the paper bag that holds the bottle
You can feel the wheels a
-grumblin' neath the floor
Sons of woman porters, son s of engineers,
ride their father's magic carpet made of steam.
And mothers with their babes asleep
are rockin' to the gentle beat.
The rhythm of the rails is
all they dream.
Singing good morning
America, how are you?
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 day is done
Nighttime on the city of
New
Orleans
Changing cars in
Memphis,
Tennessee
Halfway home and I'll be
there by morning
Through the
Mississippi darkness rolling to
But all the towns and people
seem to fade into a bad, dream
The steel rail hasn't heard the news
Conductor sings his song again
His passengers won't please refrain
This train's got the disappearing
railroad blues
Singing good morning
America, how are you?
Don't you know me,
I'm your native son I'm the train that called the city of
New
Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles
when the day is done
Singing good morning
America, how are you?
Don't you know me,
I'm your native son
I'm the train that comes to the city of
New
Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles ahead of you