(Steve Goodman)



Ridin' on the City of New Orleans

Illinois Central Monday morning rail

There's fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders

Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail.



Out on the southbound odyssey the train pulls out of Kankakee

Rolling past houses farms and fields

And passin' towns that have no names and freightyards full of old black men

And the graveyards full of the rusted automobiles.



Good mornin' America how are you

I 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 hubdred miles when the day is done.



Dealin' cards with an old man on the club car

Many a point ain't no one keepin' score

Pass that paper bag that holds the bottle

And feel the wheels a rumbling neath the floor.



And the sons of poor men porters and the sons of engineers

Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel

And mothers with their babes asleep rockin' to that gentle beat

The rhythm of the rails is all they feel.



Good mornin' America how are you

I 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 hubdred miles when the day is done.



It's night time on the City of New Orleans

Changin' cars in Memphis Tennessee

A half way home and we'll be there by mornin'

Through the Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea.



But all the towns and cities seem to fade into a bad dream

And the steel rails still ain't heard the news

The conductor sings his songs again the passengers will please refrain

This train have got the disappearing railroad blues.



Good mornin' America how are you

I 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 hubdred miles when the day is done...