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