Riding on the City of New Orleans,
Illinois Central, monday morning rail.
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
three conductors, twenty-five sacks of mail.
All along the southbound Odyssey
the train pulls out of Kankakee
and rolls along the houses, farms and fields,
passing trains that have no names
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.

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.
You can feel the wheels rumblin' neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
ride their father's magic carpets made of steel.
Mothers with their babies asleep
are 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.
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,
changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Halfway home, we'll be there by morning
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 rail ain't heard the news.
The conductor sings his songs again,
the passengers will please refrain,
this train's got the disappearin' railroad blues.

Good night 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.