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.