Artist: Roy Harper
Song: Hors D oeuvres
Album: Storm
Tabbed by: Wiktor R. Kolowiecki
E-mail:
[email protected]
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Intro: /
Verse:
/
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
Chorus:
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
Verse 2:
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 no longer hold a full house of hearts
And you know what? I don t think this little song s gonna make the charts
Chorus
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not-obvious chords:
C/B - 022010
G/F# - 220033
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Lublin, Poland
22.07.09