Riding on the City of New Orleans, Illinois Central, Monday morning rail. The're fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders, Three conductors, and twenty five sacks of mail. There all along the southbound odyssey the train pulls out of Kankakee Rolls along past houses, farms and fields. Passing towns that have no name, freight yards full of old black men And the graveyards full of rusted automobiles. Singing good morning America, how are you? Don't you know me? I'm your native son! I'm just the train they call the City of New Orleans I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done. I was dealing cards with the old men in the club car There's penny a point, and nobody keeping score. Won't you pass the paper bag that holds that bottle   You can feel the wheels grumbling neath the floor. Sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers Ride their daddy's magic carpet made of steel. Mothers with their babes asleep, go rocking to that gentle beat And the rhythm of the rails is all they dream. Singing good morning America, how are you? Don't you know me? I'm your native son! I'm just the train they call the City of New Orleans I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done. It's night time on the City of New Orleans, We're changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee. Halfway home, and we'll be there by morning Through the Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea. All the towns and the people seem to fade into a bad dream And the steel rail still ain't heard the news. The conductor sings that song again the passengers will please Refrain This train has got the disappearing railroad blues. Good morning America, how are you? Don't you know me? I'm your native son! I'm just the train they call the City of New Orleans I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done. Good morning America, how are you? Don't you know me? I'm your native son! I'm just the train they call the City of New Orleans I'll be gone long,long time when the day is done