Roch Voisine

Ridin' on the City of New Orleans, Illinois Central, Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors, twenty-five sacks of mail.
All along the Southbound odyssey, the train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolls along past houses, farms and fields
Passin' graves that have no name, freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of rusted automobiles.
Good morning 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
And I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
Dealin' cards with the old men in the club car
Penny a point, ain't no one keepin' score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels grumblin' down 'neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters, and the sons of the engineers
Ride their fathers' magic carpet made of steel
Mothers with their babes asleep rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.
Good morning 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
And I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
Night time on the City of New Orleans, changin' cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Halfway home, we'll be there by mornin'
Through the Mississippi darkness, rollin' down to the sea
But all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad dream
And the steel rail still ain't heard the news
The conductor sings his song again, the passenger will please refrain
"This train has got the disappearin' railroad blues".
Good morning 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
And I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
Good morning 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
And I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
And I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.