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"