(by Steve Goodman)

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 southbound odyssey
    The train pulls out at Kankakee
    And rolls along past houses, farms and fields
    Passing trains that have no name
    And freight yards full of old black men
    And the graveyards 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

Dealing card games with the old men in the club car
Penny a point, ain't no one keeping score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumbling 'neath the floor
    And the sons of Pullman porters
    And the sons of engineers
    Ride their fathers' magic carpets made of steel
    And 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 ...
Nighttime on the City of New Orleans
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Half way home, we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea
    But all the towns and people seem
    To fade into a bad dream
    And the steel rail still ain't heard the news
    The conductor sings his songs again
    The passengers will please refrain
    This train got the disappearing railroad blues

	Good night America, I love you ...

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