"The City Of New Orleans" lyrics
(originally by Steve Goodman)
Ridin' on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central Monday mornin' rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail
All along the Southbound odyssey
The train pulls out at Kankakee
Rollin' past the houses farms and fields
Passin' trains that have no name
Freight yards full of old black men
And the grave yards of the rusted automobiles
Singin' good mornin', America, how are ya?
Don'tcha know me I'm you're 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 car
Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score
Won'tcha pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
You can feel the wheels rumblin' neath the floor
And the sons of pullman porters and the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
Mother's with their babes asleep
Are rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
Singin' good mornin', America, how are ya?
Don'tcha know me I'm you're 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 we'll be there by mornin'
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rollin' down to the sea
And 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's got the disappearin' railroad blues
Singin' good mornin', America, how are ya?
Don'tcha know me I'm you're 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
Illinois Central Monday mornin' rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail
All along the Southbound odyssey
The train pulls out at Kankakee
Rollin' past the houses farms and fields
Passin' trains that have no name
Freight yards full of old black men
And the grave yards of the rusted automobiles
Singin' good mornin', America, how are ya?
Don'tcha know me I'm you're 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 car
Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score
Won'tcha pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
You can feel the wheels rumblin' neath the floor
And the sons of pullman porters and the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
Mother's with their babes asleep
Are rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
Singin' good mornin', America, how are ya?
Don'tcha know me I'm you're 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 we'll be there by mornin'
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rollin' down to the sea
And 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's got the disappearin' railroad blues
Singin' good mornin', America, how are ya?
Don'tcha know me I'm you're 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
