Ridin' on the City of New Orleans |
The City of New Orleans Original Lyrics by Steve Goodman Good morning, America, how are you 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. |
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. |
Dealin' cards with the old men in the club car, Penny a point, ain't no one keepin score, Won't you pass the paper bag that holds the bottle, Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor. |
Good morning, America, how are you? 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, Half way home, and we'll e there by mornin' Through the Mississippi darkness Rolling down to the sea. |
Good morning, America, how are you? 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. |
And all the towns and people seem To fade into a bad dream And the steel rails still ain't heard the news The conductor sings his songs again The passengers will please refrain This train has got the disappearing railroad blues. |
Good night, America, how are you? 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. |
Music: The City of New Orleans Nancy's Journal Whispers - Home Old New Orleans |
All along the southbound odyssey The train pulls out at Kankakee Rolls along past houses, farms and fields Passin' towns that have no names Fright yards full of old black men And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles. |
And the sons of pullman porters And the sons of engineers Ride their father's magic carpet made of steam Mothers with their babes asleep Are rockini' to the gentle beat And the rhythm of the rails is all they dream. |