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.