|
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 |
|
He\an 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 |