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.
All on a southbound odyssey,
the train pulls out of Kentucky,
rolls past horses, farms and fields.
Passing trains that have no name
and freight yards full of old black men,
and the graveyards of rusted automobiles. Singing...
Good morning, America, how are you?
Hey, don`t you know me, I`m your native son.
I`m the train they call the City of New Orleans,
and I´ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
2. Dealing cards to the old men 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.
The sons of Pullman porters, and the sons of engineers
ride their father`s magic carpet made of steel.
And mothers with their babies asleep,
are rocking to the gentle beat,
the rhythm of rails is all they feel. + CHORUS
3. Nighttime on the City of New Orleans,
changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Halfway home, and we`ll be there by morning,
through the Mississippi darkness rollin` to sea.
But all the towns and people
seem to fade into a bad dream,
the steel rail hasn`t heard the news.
The conductor sings his song again,
it`s "Passengers will please refrain!"
This train`s got the Disappearing Railway Blues. Singing.....
