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Introdução:
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Riding on the City of New Orleans,
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Illinois Central, Monday morning rail,
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Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
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Three conductors, twenty five sacks of mail.
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All along the southbound odyssey,
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The train pulls out of Kankakee,
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And rolls along the houses, farms and fields.
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Passing towns that have no name,
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And freight yards full of old black men,
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And graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
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Good morning America, how are you?
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Say don't you know me, I'm your native son.
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I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans,
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I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
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Dealing card with the old men in the club cars,
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A penny a point, ain't no one keeping score.
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Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle,
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And feel the wheels rumbling 'neath the floor.
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And the sons of Pullman porters,
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And the sons of engineers,
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Ride their fathers' magic carpet made of steam.
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Mothers with their babes asleep,
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Rocking to the gentle beat,
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And the rhythm of the rails is all they dream.
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Good morning America, how are you?
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Say don't you know me, I'm your native son.
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I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans,
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I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
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Nighttime on the City of New Orleans,
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Changing cars in Memphis, Tennesee.
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Halfway home, we'll be there by morning,
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Through the Misissippi darkness, rolling down to the sea.
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But all the towns and people seem
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To fade into a bad dream,
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The steel rail still ain't heard the news.
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The conductor sings his songs again,
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The passengers will please refrain,
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This train's got the disappearin' railroad blues.
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Goodnight America, how are you?
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Say don't you know me, I'm your native son.
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I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans,
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I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.