Luyện nghe bài hát Hors D'oeuvres

The judge sits on his assize
Twelve men wise swollen thighs
Who never ever told no
Whose were ever such a size
Whose lives were such a prize
Whose brains bred answers like flies
Whose answers stalked their like spies
Whose lead ball the courtroom flies
To rip a clean between two eyes
That ever wore disguise
And never ever saw skies
Who lived now slowly dies
Who closed unopened
Well you can lead a to water
But you're never gonna him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna make him
The critic his tired arse
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 too crude and far too coarse
And he this singer's just a farce
He's got no formulas
got no cure-all for our scars
He's got no for our bras
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 to water
But you're never make him drink
And you can a man to slaughter
But you're never make him think