02:35 

Андрей Луридов
Ты, кажется, читаешь только затем, чтобы находить что-нибудь насчёт тебя и меня. Впрочем, все женщины так читают. © И.А. Бунин


Ridin' on the City of New Orleans
Illinois Central Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail
All along the southbound odyssey
The train pulls out of Kankakee
And rolls along past houses farms and fields
Passing trains that have no name
And freight yards full of old black men
And the 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 Orleans
And i'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done

Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car
Penny a point, ain't no one keepin' score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
And feel the wheels rumbling 'neath the floor
And the sons of Pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their fathers' magic carpet made of steel
Mothers with their babes asleep
Rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel

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 Orleans
And i'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done

Night time on the City of New Orleans
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Halfway home we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea
But 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 songs again
The passengers will please refrain
This train has got the disappearing railroad blues

Good night, 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 Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done

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