Wind-Up
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 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
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
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 just a fool
Well, you can excommunicate me
On my way to Sunday school
And have all the bishops
Harmonize these lines
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
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 just a fool.
So to my old headmaster
(and to anyone who cares)
Before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers
You can excommunicate me
On my way to Sunday school
And have all the bishops
Harmonize these lines
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.
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 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
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
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 just a fool
Well, you can excommunicate me
On my way to Sunday school
And have all the bishops
Harmonize these lines
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
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 just a fool.
So to my old headmaster
(and to anyone who cares)
Before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers
You can excommunicate me
On my way to Sunday school
And have all the bishops
Harmonize these lines
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.
Credits
Writer(s): Ian Anderson
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
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