Wind Up

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.