Ri-

ding

on

the

ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

leans.

Il-

li-

nois

Cent-

ral

Mon-

day

mor-

ning

rail.

Fif-

teen

cars

and

fif-

teen

rest-

less

ri-

ders,

Three

con-

duc

tors

and

twen-

ty

five

sacks

of

mail.

All

a-

long

the

south-

bound

o-

dy-

ssey

the

train

pulls

out

at

Kan-

ka

kee

and

rolls

a-

long

the

hou-

ses

farms

and

fi-

elds.

Pas-

sin'

graves

that

have

no

name

and

freight

yards

full

of

old

black

men

and

the

grave

yard

of

the

rust-

ed

au-

to

mo-

bile

Good

mor'-

nin'

A

mer-

i

ca

how

are

you.

Don't

you

know

me

I'm

your

fa-

vorite

son.

I'm

the

train

they

call

the

Ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

le-

ans

I'll

be

gone

five

hun-

dred

miles

when

the

day

is

done.