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 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 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