Hors d'Oeuvres (Remastered)

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