Из альбома: Aqualung
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
their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question
and by way of firm reply,
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
I don't believe you:
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
Well you can excomunicate me on my way to Sunday school
how do you dare tell me that I'm my Father's son
when that was just an Accident of Birth.
`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:
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.