Wind-Up - Live at Palais Des Sports, Paris, 5/7/1975; Jakko Jakszyk Stereo Mix
๐ต 1144 characters
โฑ๏ธ 3:02 duration
๐ ID: 5093329
๐ Lyrics
When i was young and they packed me off to school
And they 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 harmonise these lines -
How do you dare to 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.
And they 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 harmonise these lines -
How do you dare to 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.