Ri-

ding

on

the

Ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

leans,

Il-

li-

nois

Cen-

tral

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-

dys-

sey

The

train

pulls

out

at

Kan-

ka-

kee

Rolls

a-

long

past

hou-

ses,

farms

and

fields

Pas-

sin'

trains

that

have

no

names

Freight

yards

full

of

old

black

men

And

the

grave-

yards

of

the

rus-

ted

au-

to-

mo-

biles

Good

mor-

ning

A-

me-

ri-

ca

how

are

you?

Say

don't

you

know

me

I'm

your

na-

tive

son

I'm

the

train

they

call

The

Ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

leans

I'll

be

gone

five

hun-

dred

miles

when

the

day

is

done

Dea-

lin'

card

games

with

the

old

men

in

the

club

car

Pen-

ny

a

point

ain't

no

one

kee-

pin'

score

Pass

the

pa-

per

bag

that

holds

the

bot-

tle

Feel

the

wheels

rum-

blin'

'neath

the

floor

And

the

sons

of

Pull-

man

por-

ters

And

the

sons

of

en-

gi-

neers

Ride

their

fa-

thers'

ma-

gic

car-

pets

made

of

steel

Mo-

thers

with

their

babes

a-

sleep

Are

ro-

ckin'

to

the

gen-

tle

beat

And

the

rhy-

thm

of

the

rails

is

all

they

feel

Good

mor-

ning

A-

me-

ri-

ca

how

are

you?

Say

don't

you

know

me

I'm

your

na-

tive

son

I'm

the

train

they

call

The

Ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

leans

I'll

be

gone

five

hun-

dred

miles

when

the

day

is

done

Night-

time

on

The

Ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

leans

Chan-

ging

cars

in

Mem-

phis,

Ten-

nes-

see

Half

way

home,

we'll

be

there

by

mor-

ning

Through

the

Mis-

sis-

sip-

pi

dark-

ness

Rol-

ling

down

to

the

sea

But

all

the

towns

and

peo-

ple

seem

To

fade

in-

to

a

bad

dream

And

the

steel

rails

still

ain't

heard

the

news

The

con-

duc-

tor

sings

his

songs

a-

gain

The

pas-

sen-

gers

will

please

re-

frain

This

train's

got

the

dis-

ap-

pea-

ring

rail-

road

blues

Good

night,

A-

me-

ri-

ca,

how

are

you?

Say

don't

you

know

me

I'm

your

na-

tive

son

I'm

the

train

they

call

The

Ci-

ty

of

New

Or-

leans

I'll

be

gone

five

hun-

dred

miles

when

the

day

is

done