When I was young and they packed me off to school And taught me how not to play the game, I didn't mind if they groomed me for success, Or if they said that I was a fool. So I left there in the morning With their God tucked underneath my arm -- Their half-assed smiles and the book of rules. So I asked this God a question And by way of firm reply, He said -- I'm not the kind you have to wind up on sundays. So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares): Before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers -- I don't believe you: You had the whole damn thing all wrong -- He's not the kind you have to wind up on sundays. Well you can excomunicate me on my way to sunday school And have all the bishops harmonize these lines -- How do you dare tell me that I'm my father's son When that was just an accident of birth. I'd rather look around me -- compose a better song 'cos that's the honest measure of my worth. In your pomp and all your glory you're a poorer man than me, As you lick the boots of death born out of fear. I don't believe you: You had the whole damn thing all wrong -- He's not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
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