Riding on the city of New OrleansIllinois Central Monday morning redFifteen cars and fifteen restless ridersThere's three conductors and twenty-five sacks of maizeOn the southbound OdysseyThat train pulls out of KankakeeRolls along past houses, farms and fieldsPassing trains that have no nameFreight yards full of old black menIn the graveyards of the rusted automobilesGood morning America, how are you?Don't you know me? I'm your native sonI'm the train they call the city of New OrleansI'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is donePlaying cards with the old men in the club carIt's just a penny a point, there ain't no one keeping scorePass the paper bag that holds the bottleAnd you can feel the wheels rumbling beneath the floorAnd the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineersRide their father's magic carpet made of steelMothers with their babes asleep rock into the gentle beatThe rhythm of the rails is all they feelLet me hear you nowGood morning America, how are you?Well, don't you know me? I'm your native sonI'm the train they call the city of New OrleansI'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is doneLet me hear from Eric WeisbergLet me hear from Eric WeisbergI'm the train they call the city of New OrleansI'm the train they call the city of New OrleansLet me hear from Eric WeisbergOh, let me hear that, Russell Walden, he's something else.Oh, let me hear that, Russell Walden, he's something else.Oh, let me hear that, Russell Walden, he's something else.Oh, let me hear that, Russell Walden, he's something else.Oh, let me hear that, Russell Walden.