| Lyrics: | Riding on the City of New Orleans,
Illinois Central, monday morning rail,
fifteen cars and
fifteen restless riders,
three conductors, twenty-five sacks of mail.
All along the
southbound Odyssey
the train pulls out of Kankakee
and rolls along the houses, farms and
fields,
passing towns that had no names
and freight yards full of old black men
and
the graveyards 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,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
Dealin' card games
with the old man in the club car,
penny a point and no one's keepin' score,
pass the paper
bag that holds the bottle,
you can feel the wheels grumblin' neath the floor.
And the sons
of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
ride their father's magic carpet made of
steam
mothers with their babies asleep
are rochin' 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 rollin' down to the sea.
But all the towns and
people seen to fade into a bad dream
and the steel rail hasn't heard the news
the
conductor sings his songs again,
it's passengers will please refrain,
this train's got the
disappearin' 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 |
