Wind Up

When i was young and they packed me off to school
And taught me how not to play the game,
I didnt 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 -- im not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
Before im through id like to say my prayers --
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes 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 im my fathers son
When that was just an accident of birth.
Id rather look around me -- compose a better song
`cos thats the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory youre a poorer man than me,
As you lick the boots of death born out of fear.
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.