Hors D'oeuvres Lyrics - Singles - Roy Harper

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 coarse 

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