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.

Dealing card games with the old man in the club car,
penny a point and no one's keeping score,
pass the paper bag that holds the bottle,
you can feel the wheels grumbling neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
mothers with their babies asleep
are rocking 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 rolling down to the sea.
But all the towns and people seem 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 disappearing railroad blues.

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.