His pulpit's a corner
On 19th and main
His grip on the gospel
His one claim to fame

He hurls fire and brrimstone
At the cars passing by
And he offers salvation
For the savior on high

His khakis are tattered
And he aint bathed in weeks
His bout with the bottle
Shows up on his cheeks

He looks like a scarecrow
A sight to behold
As he works for the shepherd
Bringin lambs to the fold
He points to the bible
He holds in his hands
Says im proof that the good lord
Can save any man

Son, it aint what youre driving
Or the clothes that you wear
Material possessions
Wont matter up there
And someday in heaven
When the angels all sing
These rags that im wearin
Will be fit for a king