(Goodman)
Riding on the "City of New Orleans," Illinois Central Monday Morning Rail.
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail.
They're out on the south-bound odyssey and the train pulls out of Kankakee.
Rolling long past houses, farms and fields.
Passing towns that have no name, freight yards full of old gray men,
the graveyards of the rusted automobiles,
Singing, good morning America, how are you?
Saying, 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.
Plenty of points, ain't no one keeping score.
Say, won't you pass the paper bag that holds the bottle.
And feel the wheels rumbling 'neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters, and the sons of engineers
ride their father's magic carpet made of steel.
And the days are full of restless, and the dreams are full of memories,
and the echoes of the freight train whistles clear.
Singing, good morning America, how are you?
Saying, 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.
But it's twilight on the city of New Orleans, talk about a pocket full of friends.
Halfway home and we'll be there by morning.
With no tomorrow waiting 'round the bend.
Singing good night, America, I love you.
Saying, 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.
Singing, good morning America, how are you?
Sayin
