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.