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.