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 play on 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" Said he came from down in Texas Playin' out since he's 15 And you can hear a little Chicago And a lot of New Orleans And he can take you on a freight train And he can take you down the alley And he can take you to the church And 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 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"