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

'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.

Copyright: BMG Rights Management, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): IAN ANDERSON