Postcards from Hell

I know a man and he 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

Playing for tips and beer

People carrying on and drinking

You gotta strain to hear

I've seen him playing some old cheap guitar

But he could play on pots and pans

You never heard a soul so pure and true

It's flowing 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 calling up the angels

And use a breeze for a telephone wire

But if you ask him how he sings 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

Said he came from down in Texas

Playing out since he's 15

You can hear a little Chicago

And a lot of New Orleans

He can 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 sleeping in a doorway

Maybe living outside

On his back just like a cockroach

But he ain't waiting 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

I got a soul that I won't sell

That's how I sing my blues so well

And I don't read postcards from hell