Ri-ding on the ci-ty of New Or-leans.
Il-li-nois Cent-ral Mon-day mor-ning rail.
Fif-teen cars and fif-teen rest-less
ri -ders, Three con-duc tors and twen-ty
five sacks of mail. All a-long the south-bound
o-dy- ssey the train pulls out at Kan-ka kee and rolls a-long the hou-ses
farms and fi-elds. Pas-sin' graves that have no name and freight yards full of old
black men and the grave yard of the rust-ed au-to mo-bile Good mor'- nin' A mer-i ca how are you.
Don't you know me I'm your fa-vorite son. I'm the train they call the Ci-ty of New Or-le-ans I'll be gone five hun-dred miles when the day is done.
