Ridin' on the City of New Orleans Illinois Central, Monday mornin' rail Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail
All along the south-bound odysey The train pulls out of Kankakee And rolls along past houses, farms and fields Passin' towns that have no name
And freight yards full of old black men And the grave-yards of the rusted automobiles Good-Morning America, how are you? 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 Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle Feel the wheels grumblin' 'neath the floor And the sons of Pullman porters, and the sons of engineers Ride their fathers magic carpet made of steel
Mothers with their babes asleep are rockin' 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 five-hundred miles when the day is done Night time on the City of New Orleans Changin' cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Halfway home, we'll be there by mornin' Through the Mississippi darkness rollin' down to the sea But all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad dream And the steel rails still ain't heard the news
The conductor sings his song again The passengers will please refrain This trains got the disapearin' railroad blues. 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 five-hundred miles when the day is doneTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
