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Copyright Roy Harper, Science Friction Ltd. More info and lyrics (Show More) Lyrics: Hors d Oeuvres 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 stalk 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 and 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 And 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 And says I m much too crude and far too coarse And h