by Steve Goodman
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Riding on the City of New Orleans,
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Illinois Central Monday morning rail
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Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
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Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail.
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All along the southbound odyssey
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The train pulls out at Kankakee
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Rolls along past houses, farms and fields.
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Passin' trains that have no names,
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Freight yards full of old black men
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And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
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CHORUS:
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Good morning America how are you?
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Say, don't you know me I'm your native son,
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I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
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I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
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Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car.
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Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score.
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Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
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Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor.
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And the sons of pullman porters
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And the sons of engineers
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Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel.
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Mothers with their babes asleep,
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Are rockin' to the gentle beat
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And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.
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CHORUS
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Nighttime on The City of New Orleans,
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Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
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Half way home, we'll be there by morning
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Through the Mississippi darkness
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Rolling down to the sea.
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But all the towns and people seem
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To fade into a bad dream
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And the steel rails still ain't heard the news.
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The conductor sings his songs again,
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The passengers will please refrain
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This train's got the disappearing railroad blues.
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Good night, America, how are you?
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Say, don't you know me I'm your native son,
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I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
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I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
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The City of New Orleans
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| Arlo Guthrie |
