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 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 automobile Good morning, America, how are you? Say, dont you know me? Im your native son Im the train they call the City Of New Orleans Ill be gone five hundred miles when the day is done Dealing card games with the old man in the Club Car Penny a point - aint no one keeping score As 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 rocking to the gentle beat And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel Good morning, America, how are you? Say, dont you know me? Im your native son Im the train they call the City Of New Orleans Ill 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 - well 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 aint heard the news The conductor sings his songs again - the passengers will please refrain This train got the disappearing railroad blues Good night, America, how are you? Say, dont you know me? Im your native son Im the train they call the City Of New Orleans Ill be gone five hundred miles when the day is done
Posted on: Thu, 07 Nov 2013 18:48:39 +0000
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