Riding on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central, Monday morning rail
15 cars and 15 restless riders
3 conductors, 25 sacks of mail

All along the southbound odyssey, the train pulls out of Kankakee
And rolls along past houses, farms and fields
Passing trains that have no name, and freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles

Good morning America, how are you?
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 500 miles when the day is done

Dealing card games with the old men in the club car
Penny a point ain't no one keeping score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheel rumbling 'neath the floor

And the sons of Pullman porters, and the sons of engineers
Ride their fathers' magic carpets, made of steel
And mothers with their babes asleep are rocking to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel

Good morning America, how are you?
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 500 miles when the day is done

Good morning America, how are you?
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 500 miles when the day is done

Good night America, how are you
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 500 miles when the day is done