Riding on the city of New Or leans,
Illinois
Central, Monday morning rail.
Fifteen cars and fifteen
restless riders
Three conductors and
twenty -five sacks of mail
All along the southbound odyssey
The train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolls along past houses,
farms, and fields
Passing trains that have no names
Freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of the
rusted automobiles
Good morning America, how are ya?
Say, don't you know me?
I'm your native son
I'm the train they call
The city of New Or leans
I'll be gone five hundred miles
When the day is done
I see old men playin' poker
In a club car
A penny in hand ain't no
one keepin' score
They pass the paper bag
that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels a
-grumblin' neat the floor
An d the sons of foreman porters
and the sons of engineers
ride their father's magic carpet
made of steel mothers
with their babes asleep
are 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
Nighttime 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
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's got the
disappearing railroad blues
Oh, goodnight America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me?
I'm your latest son
I'm the train they call
the City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles
when the day is done
You