[00:14.450]The judge sits on his great assize
[00:26.728]Twelve men wise with swollen thighs
[00:38.721]Who never ever told no lies
[00:50.787]Whose minds were ever such a size
[01:03.287]Whose lives were ever such a prize
[01:15.661]Whose brains bred answers just like flies
[01:27.280]Whose answers stalked their thoughts like spies
[01:39.047]Whose lead ball through the courtroom flies
[01:50.979]To rip a hole clean between two eyes
[02:03.182]That never ever wore disguise
[02:15.117]And never ever saw blue skies
[02:26.972]Who quickly lived now slowly dies
[02:38.648]Who closed unopened otherwise
[02:52.982]Well you can lead a horse to water
[03:04.299]But you're never gonna make him drink
[03:12.497]And you can lead a man to slaughter
[03:23.464]But you're never gonna make him think
[03:32.118]The critic rubs his tired arse
[03:43.922]Scrapes his poor brains, strains and farts
[03:55.664]And wields a pen that stops and starts
[04:07.406]And thinks in terms of booze and tarts
[04:19.466]And sits there playing with his parts
[04:31.426]He says I'm much too crude and far too course
[04:43.727]And he says this singer's just a farce
[04:54.353]He's got no healing formulas
[05:07.201]He's got no cure-all for our scars
[05:19.028]He's got no bra-strap for our bras
[05:30.530]And our sagging tits no longer hold a full house of hearts
[05:42.459]And you know what? I don't think this little song's gonna make the charts
[05:57.513]Well you can lead a horse to water
[06:08.338]But you're never gonna make him drink
[06:16.590]And you can lead a man to slaughter
[06:33.049]But you're never gonna make him think

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