Words & Music by Steve Goodman
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Riding on the "City of New Orleans"
Illinois Central Monday Morning Rail
Less fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mails
They're out on the south-bound odissey and the train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolling past houses, farms and fields
Passing towns that have no names and freight yards full of old grey men
And the graveyards of the 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 foregone 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 echoes of the freight train whistle's 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 and 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
______________________________
Riding on the "City of New Orleans"
Illinois Central Monday Morning Rail
Less fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mails
They're out on the south-bound odissey and the train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolling past houses, farms and fields
Passing towns that have no names and freight yards full of old grey men
And the graveyards of the 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 foregone 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 echoes of the freight train whistle's 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 and 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