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City Of New Orleans - text

Riding on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central Monday morning rail
There's fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty five sacks of mail
They're out on the south-bound odyssey and the train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolling past houses, farms and fields
Passing towns that have no names and freightyards full of old black men
And the graveyards full of rusted automobiles

Singing good morning America, how are you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done

I was dealing cards with the old man in the club car
Plenty of points there ain't no one keeping score
Say won't you pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels rumbling through the floor
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpet made of steel
And the days were full of
restless and their dreams were full of memories
And the echos of the freight train whistles clear

Singing good morning America, how are you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Yes I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done

But it's twilight on the city of New Orleans
Talk about a pocket full of friends
Halfway home, we'll be there by morning
With no tomorrow waiting round the bend

Singing goodbye America, I love you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
I'm the train they call City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done

Singing good morning America, how are you
Saying don't you know me, I'm your native son
Yes I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the days is done

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