Riding on the city of New Orleans, Illinois Central, Monday morning real.Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders, three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail.All along the southbound Odyssey, the train pulls out of Kankakee, rolls along past houses, farms and fields.Fastened trains that have no name, the freight yachts full of old green men and the graveyard of the rusted automobile.Good morning America, how are you?I say, 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 car games with old men in the club car.Penny a point, ain't no one keeping score.Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle.Feel the wheels rumbling beneath the floor.And the sons of coalmen, porters and the sons of engineers.Riding their father's magic carpet made of steel.Mothers with their babes asleep, rocking to their genitals.A gentle beat and the rhythm of the rails is all they hear.Good morning America, how are you?I say, 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.Nighttime on the city of New Orleans.Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.Halfway home, we'll be there by morning.Through the Mississippi darkness, rolling on down to the sea.But all the towns and people seem to fade into us.My bad dream, and still the rails, still ain't heard the news.The doctor sings the songs again.The passengers will please refrain.This train has got the disappearing railroad blues.Good morning America, how are you?I say, 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.I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.