City Of New Orleans

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
Rolls along past houses, farms and fields
Passing graves that have no name, freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of rusted automobiles.

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 the day is done.

Dealing cards with the old men in the club car
Penny a point, ain't no keeping score.
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels grumbling neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of the engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel.
Mothers with their babes asleep rocking to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rail is all they feel.

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 the day is done.

Nighttime in the City of New Orleans
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Halfway home, we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness, rolling down to the sea.
But 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 has got the disappearing railroad blues.

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 the day is done.