Song: Hors D'oeuvres
Album: Stormcock
Tabbed by: Wiktor R. Kolowiecki
E-mail: [email protected]
Intro: C C/B Am G G/F# D/D4
Verse:
[C]The judge [C/B]sits o[Am]n h[G]is[G/F#] grea[Em7]t ass[D/D4]ize
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:
[G]Well you can lead a [D]horse to w[Em]ater
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 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
Chorus
not-obvious chords:
C/B - 022010
G/F# - 220033
Lublin, Poland
22.07.09
Album: Stormcock
Tabbed by: Wiktor R. Kolowiecki
E-mail: [email protected]
---------------------------------
Intro: C C/B Am G G/F# D/D4
Verse:
[C]The judge [C/B]sits o[Am]n h[G]is[G/F#] grea[Em7]t ass[D/D4]ize
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:
[G]Well you can lead a [D]horse to w[Em]ater
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 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
Chorus
-------------------------------
not-obvious chords:
C/B - 022010
G/F# - 220033
------------------------------
Lublin, Poland
22.07.09
