| 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. |