Riding on The City Of New Orleans, Illinois Central Monday morning rail. Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders, three conducters and twenty-five sacks of mail. All along the southbound odyssey the train pulls out at Kankanee, rolls along past houses, farms and fields. Passin' trains that have no names, freight yards full of old black men, and the graveyards of the rusted automobiles. Good morning 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.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Good morning, America. How are you?
Riding on The City Of New Orleans, Illinois Central Monday morning rail. Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders, three conducters and twenty-five sacks of mail. All along the southbound odyssey the train pulls out at Kankanee, rolls along past houses, farms and fields. Passin' trains that have no names, freight yards full of old black men, and the graveyards of the rusted automobiles. Good morning 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.
