Postcards From Hell

I know a man who sings the blues

Yeah he plays just what he feels

Keeps a letter in the pocket of his coat

But he never breaks the seal

Set up in a bar room corner

Playin' for tips and beer

People carryin' on and drinkin'

You gotta strain to hear

I've seen him playin' some old cheap guitar

But he could play on pots and pans

You never heard a soul so pure and true

It's flowin' right out of his hands

He can sing sweet as a choir girl

Or he can sing a house on fire

I've seen him callin' up the angels

And use a breeze for a telephone wire

And if you ask him

How he sings his blues so well

He says

I got a soul that I won't sell

I got a soul that I won't sell

I got a soul that I won't sell

And I don't read postcards from hell

Says he came from down in Texas

Playin' out since he's fifteen

You can hear a little Chicago

And a lot of New Orleans

Hean take you on a freight train

He can take you down the alley

He can take you to the church

He can walk you through the valley

And if you ask him

How he sings his blues so well

He says

I got a soul that I won't sell

I got a soul that I won't sell

I got a soul that I won't sell

And I don't read postcards from hell

I've seen him sleepin' in a doorway

Maybe livin' outside

On his back just like a cockroach

But he ain't waitin' to die

And if you ask him

How he sings his blues so well

He says

I got a soul that I won't sell

I got a soul that I won't sell

I got a soul that I won't sell

And I don't read postcards from hell