Riding on the City of New Orleans,
Illinois Central, monday morning rail.
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
three conductors and twentyfive sacks of mail.
All along the south bound odyssey,
the train pulls out of Kenkakee,
rolls along past houses, farms and fields.
Passing trains that have no name,
freight yards full of old black men
and graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
Good morning America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me, I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New...
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