Ridin' on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central Monday mornin' rail
There's 15 cars, and 15 restless riders
3 conductors and 25 sacks of mail
All along a southbound oddyssey, and the train pulls out of Kankakee
And rolls along past the houses, farms and fields
Passin' towns that have no name, and freightyards full of old grey men
The graveyards of the rusted automobiles
Singin' good mornin' America, how are you?
Sayin' 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 500 miles when the day is done.
I was playin' cards with the old men in the club car.
Penny a point, ain’t no one keepin' score
Pass the paper bag that holds that bottle.
I can hear the wheels rumblin' thru the floor.
And the sons of Pullman Porters, and the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
And their days are full of restless, and their dreams are full of mem'ries
And the echos of the freight train whistle’s clear
And its twilight on the City of New Orleans.
Talk about your pocket full of friends
Half way home, and we'll be there by mornin'
With no tomorrow waiting ‘round the bend
Singin' good night' America, how are you?
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