Right on the city of New Orleans, Illinois Central Monday morning rail.

15 cars and 15 restless riders.

Three conductors and 25 sacks on mail.

All along the Southbound, Odyssey, the freight pulls out at

can the key and roads along past houses farms and fields and fields.

Passing trains that have no name in great yards full of old black men

and the graveyard of the Rusted Automobile.

Good morning America, how are you?

Say don't you know me?

I'm your native son.

I'm the rain they call

the city of New Orleans.

And I'll be gone 500 miles when the day is done.

leaving cars with the old man in the club car. Any of the old man in the club car.

Any of point, ain't no one keeping score.

Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle

feel the wheels rumbling

beneath the floor

and the sons of Poland's porters and the sons of engineers

wrapped her father's magic carpet made of steel.

Mothers with their baits' sleep, rocking through the gentle beat

and the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.

...