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Bắt đầu làm bài nào

The sits on his great assize
Twelve men wise swollen thighs
Who never told no lies
Whose minds were such a size
Whose lives ever such a prize
Whose brains bred answers just flies
Whose answers their thoughts like spies
Whose lead ball the courtroom flies
To rip a hole clean two eyes
That never ever wore
And never ever saw skies
Who quickly lived now dies
Who closed unopened
Well you can lead a to water
But never gonna make him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna him think
The critic rubs his tired
Scrapes his poor brains, and farts
And wields a pen stops and starts
And in terms of booze and tarts
And sits playing with his parts
He I'm much too crude and far too coarse
And he says this singer's a farce
He's got no formulas
got no cure-all for our scars
He's got no bra-strap for our
And our sagging tits no longer a full house of hearts
And you know what? I don't think little song's gonna make the charts
you can lead a horse to water
But you're never make him drink
And you can a man to slaughter
But never gonna make him think