City Of New Orleans                                   cars in Memphis, Tennessee Halfway home and       
(Steve Goodman, Arlo Guthrie)                         we'll be there by morning Through the             
                                                      Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea But  
Riding on the City of New Orleans, Illinois           all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad  
Central, Monday morning rail Fifteen cars and         dream And the steel rail still ain't heard the    
fifteen restless riders Three conductors,             news The conductor sings his song again,          
twenty-five sacks of mail All along the               "Passengers will please refrain" This train has   
southbound odyssey the train pulls out of             got the disappearing railroad blues.              
Kankakee Rolls along past houses, farms, and                                                            
fields Passing towns that have no name freight        Good night America, how are you? Don't you know   
yards full of old Black men And the graveyards        me, I'm your native son? I'm the train they       
of rusted automobiles.                                call the City of New Orleans I'll be gone five    
                                                      hundred miles when the day is done.               
[chorus]:                                                                                               
    Good mornin' America, how are you?                                                                  
    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 And                                                            
feel the wheels grumbling 'neath the floor. And                                                         
the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of                                                             
engineers Ride their fathers' magic carpet made                                                         
of steam Mothers with their babes asleep,                                                               
rockin' to the gentle beat And the rhythm of the                                                        
rails is all they dream.                                                                                
                                                                                                        
[chorus]                                                                                                
                                                                                                        
Night time on the City of New Orleans, changing