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 along the south bound odyssey, the train pulls out of Kankakee,
Rolls along past houses farms and fields,
Passing trains that have no name, freight yards of old black men
And the graveyards of rusted automobiles.
Good morning, America, how are you?
1/2 1/2
Say, 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.
Dealing card games with the old men in the club car,