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.
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. Explain Request ×
Lyrics taken from
/lyrics/j/jethro_tull/wind_up.html
