Nighttime on The City of New Orleans, changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee. Half way home, we'll be there by morning, through the Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea. And all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad dream and the steel rails still ain't heard the news. The conductor sings his song again, the passengers will please refrain - this train's got the disappearing railroad blues.
Good night, 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, I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
