Luyện nghe bài hát Hors D'oeuvres

The judge sits on his assize
Twelve men with swollen thighs
Who never told no lies
Whose minds were such a size
lives were ever such a prize
Whose bred answers just like flies
Whose answers stalked their thoughts like
Whose lead ball through the courtroom
To rip a hole between two eyes
never ever wore disguise
And never saw blue skies
Who quickly now slowly dies
Who unopened otherwise
Well you can a horse to water
But you're never make him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna make him
The critic rubs his tired
Scrapes his poor brains, strains and
And a pen that stops and starts
And thinks in of booze and tarts
And sits there playing his parts
He says I'm much too crude and far too
And he says this singer's just a
got no healing formulas
He's got no cure-all for our
He's got no bra-strap for our
And our sagging tits no longer hold a house of hearts
And you know what? I don't think this little song's make the charts
Well you can a horse to water
But you're never gonna him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna him think