When i was young and they packed me off to school
and they 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 just 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.
and 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 excommunicate me on my way to sunday school
and have all the bishops harmonise these lines -
how do you dare to 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.