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