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.
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