Luyện nghe bài hát Hors D'oeuvres

The judge on his great assize
Twelve men with swollen thighs
Who never ever no lies
Whose minds were ever such a
Whose were ever such a prize
Whose brains bred answers like flies
Whose answers their thoughts like spies
Whose lead through the courtroom flies
To rip a hole between two eyes
That never ever wore
And never ever saw skies
Who quickly lived now dies
Who closed unopened
Well you can a horse to water
But you're gonna make him drink
And you can lead a man to
But you're never gonna him think
The critic rubs his tired
Scrapes his poor brains, strains and
And a pen that stops and starts
And thinks in terms of booze and
And sits there with his parts
He says I'm too crude and far too coarse
And he says singer's just a farce
got no healing formulas
He's got no 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 think little song's gonna make the charts
Well you can lead a horse to
But you're never make him drink
And you can a man to slaughter
But you're never gonna him think