Ridin' on The City of New Orleans
Illinois Central, and 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 past houses, farms and fields
Passin' trains that have no name
And freightyards full of old black men
And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.

Good morning America, how are ya?
Said 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 men in the club cars
Penny a point, ain't no one keepin' score?
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels grumblin' 'neath the floor.

And the sons of Pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpets made of steam
Mothers with their babes asleep
Are rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.

Good morning America, how are ya?
Said 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
Changin' cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Halfway home, and we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness rollin' 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 songs again
The passengers will please refrain
This train's got the disappearin' railroad blues.

Good night America, how are ya?
Said 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.

(c) Copyright 1970 by Steve Goodman. All rights a__igned 1971 Kama Rippa Music, Inc./
Turnpike Tom. All rights administered by Kama Rippa Music, Inc., 810 Seventh Ave.,
New York, New York 10019.

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