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
Their out on the southbound odyssey The train pulls out of Kankakee Rolls along past houses, farms and fields Passin' towns that have no names Freightyards full of old grey men And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
Singing good morning America, how are you? 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
Dealin' card with the old men in the club car Penny a point, aint't no one keepin score Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle Feel the wheels rumblin ´neath the floor
And the sons of the pullman porters And the sons of the engineers Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel
And the days are full of restless And the dreams are full of memories And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
Singing good morning America, how are you? 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 before the day is done
Well, its twilight on the city of New Orleans Talk about your pocketful of friends Half way home and we'll be there by mornin' No tomorrow waitin' round the bend
Singing good morning America, how are you? 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 before the day is done
Singing good night America, how are you? 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 before the day is done
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Copy to Clipboard: 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
Their out on the southbound odyssey The train pulls out of Kankakee Rolls along past houses, farms and fields Passin' towns that have no names Freightyards full of old grey men And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
Singing good morning America, how are you? 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
Dealin' card with the old men in the club car Penny a point, aint't no one keepin score Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle Feel the wheels rumblin ´neath the floor
And the sons of the pullman porters And the sons of the engineers Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel
And the days are full of restless And the dreams are full of memories And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
Singing good morning America, how are you? 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 before the day is done
Well, its twilight on the city of New Orleans Talk about your pocketful of friends Half way home and we'll be there by mornin' No tomorrow waitin' round the bend
Singing good morning America, how are you? 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 before the day is done
Singing good night America, how are you? 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 before the day is done
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