Luyện nghe bài hát Hors D'oeuvres

The judge on his great assize
Twelve men with swollen thighs
Who never told no lies
minds were ever such a size
Whose lives were such a prize
brains bred answers just like flies
Whose answers stalked thoughts like spies
lead ball through the courtroom flies
To rip a clean between two eyes
That never wore disguise
And never ever saw blue
Who quickly now slowly dies
Who closed otherwise
Well you can lead a to water
But you're never make him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're gonna make him think
The critic rubs his arse
Scrapes his poor brains, strains and
And wields a pen stops and starts
And in terms of booze and tarts
And sits there playing with his
He says I'm much too and far too coarse
And he says this singer's just a
He's got no formulas
He's got no cure-all for our
He's got no for our bras
And our sagging tits no longer hold a full house of
And you know what? I think this little song's gonna make the charts
Well you can lead a to water
But you're gonna make him drink
And you can a man to slaughter
But you're never gonna him think