Luyện nghe bài hát Hors D'oeuvres

The judge sits on his great
Twelve men with swollen thighs
Who never told no lies
Whose minds were such a size
Whose were ever such a prize
Whose brains bred answers just like
Whose answers stalked their like spies
Whose lead through the courtroom flies
To rip a clean between two eyes
That never wore disguise
And never saw blue skies
Who quickly now slowly dies
Who closed unopened
Well you can lead a horse to
But you're gonna make him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna make him
The critic rubs his arse
Scrapes his poor brains, and farts
And a pen that stops and starts
And thinks in of booze and tarts
And sits there playing with his
He I'm much too crude and far too coarse
And he says singer's just 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 hold a full house of hearts
And you know what? I don't this little song's gonna make the charts
Well you can lead a horse to
But you're gonna make him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna him think