| Riding on the City of New Orleans
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| Illinois Central Monday morning rail
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| Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
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| Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail
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| All along the southbound odyssey
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| The train pulls out at Kankakee
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| Rolls along past houses, farms and fields
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| Passin' trains that have no names
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| Freight yards full of old black men
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| And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles
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| Good morning America how are you?
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| I said, don’t you know me I’m your native son
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| I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans
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| I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done
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| Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car
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| Penny a point ain’t no one keepin' score
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| Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
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| Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor
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| And the sons of pullman porters and the sons of engineers
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| Ride their father’s magic carpets made of steel
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| Mothers with their babes asleep are rockin' to the gentle beat
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| And the rhythm of the rails is all that they feel
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| Good morning America how are you?
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| I said, don’t you know me I’m your native son
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| I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans
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| I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done
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| Good morning America how are you?
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| I said, don’t you know me I’m your native son
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| I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans
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| I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done
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| Good night, America, how are you?
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| I said, don’t you know me I’m your native son
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| I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans
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| I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done |