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 barroom 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

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