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.