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180426271.gif
by Steve Goodman
Riding on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central Monday morning rail
There's fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail
They're out on the south-bound odyssey and the train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolling past houses, farms and fields
Passing towns that have no names and freightyards full of old black men
And the graveyards full of rusted automobiles
Singing good morning America, how are you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
I was dealing cards with the old man in the club car
Plenty of points there ain't no one keeping score
Say won't you pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels rumbling through the floor
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
And the days were full of
restless and their dreams were full of memories
And the echos of the freight train whistles clear
Singing good morning America, how are you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Yes I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
But it's twilight on the city of New Orleans
Talk about a pocket full of friends
Halfway home, we'll be there by morning
With no tomorrow waiting round the bend
Singing goodbye America, I love you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
Singing good morning America, how are you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Yes I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
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I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
Yes I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Singing good morning America, how are you
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Singing goodbye America, I love you
With no tomorrow waiting round the bend
Halfway home, we'll be there by morning
Talk about a pocket full of friends
But it's twilight on the city of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
Yes I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Singing good morning America, how are you
And the echos of the freight train whistles clear
restless and their dreams were full of memories
And the days were full of
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
And feel the wheels rumbling through the floor
Say won't you pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Plenty of points there ain't no one keeping score
I was dealing cards with the old man in the club car
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done
I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Singing good morning America, how are you
And the graveyards full of rusted automobiles
Passing towns that have no names and freightyards full of old black men
Rolling past houses, farms and fields
They're out on the south-bound odyssey and the train pulls out of Kankakee
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail
There's fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Illinois Central Monday morning rail
Riding on the City of New Orleans
by Steve Goodman
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