Wind-Up

When I was young and they packed me off to school

and they 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 harmonise these lines -

How do you dare to 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

'cause 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.