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