Lyrics for City Of New Orleans
By Arlo Guthrie
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Riding on the City of New Orleans,
Illinois Central, monday morning rail.
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
three conductors and twentyfive sacks of mail.
All along the south bound odyssey,
the train pulls out of Kenkakee,
rolls along past houses, farms and fields.
Passing trains that have no name,
freight yards full of old black men
and 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.
Dealing card games with the old men in the club car,
penny a point ain't no one keeping score.
Pass 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 father's magic carpets, made of steel.
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, 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.
Nightime on the City of New Orleans,
changing cars in Memphis Tennessee.
Half way home we'll 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 ain't heard the news.
The conductor sings his songs again,
the passagers will please refrain,
this train got the disappearing 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.
Illinois Central, monday morning rail.
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
three conductors and twentyfive sacks of mail.
All along the south bound odyssey,
the train pulls out of Kenkakee,
rolls along past houses, farms and fields.
Passing trains that have no name,
freight yards full of old black men
and 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.
Dealing card games with the old men in the club car,
penny a point ain't no one keeping score.
Pass 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 father's magic carpets, made of steel.
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, 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.
Nightime on the City of New Orleans,
changing cars in Memphis Tennessee.
Half way home we'll 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 ain't heard the news.
The conductor sings his songs again,
the passagers will please refrain,
this train got the disappearing 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.
