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 odyssey
The train pulls out at Kankakee
And rolls along past houses, farms and fields
Passin’ trains that have no names
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
And I’ll be gone five-hundred miles when the day is done
Dealin’ cards 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 father’s magic carpet made of steel
Mothers with their babes asleep, rockin’ to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
Good morning America, how are you?
Say don’t you know me, I’m your native son