Luyện nghe bài hát Hors D'oeuvres

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