Frankly, Mr Shankly, this position I've held

it pays my way and it corrodes my soul

I want to leave you will not miss me

I want to go down in musical history



Frankly, Mr Shankly, I'm a sickening wreck

I've got the 21st century breathing down my neck

I must move fast, you understand me

I want to go down in celluloid history Mr Shankly



Fame, fame, fatal fame

it can play hideous tricks on the brain

but still I rather be famous

than righteous or holy, any day, any day, any day



But sometimes I'd feel more fulfilled

making Christmas cards with the mentally ill

I want to live and I want to love

I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of



Frankly, Mr Shankly, this position I've held

it pays my way and it corrodes my soul

oh, I didn't realise that you wrote poetry

I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry Mr Shankly



Frankly, Mr Shankly, since you ask

you are a flatulent pain the arse

I do not mean to be so rude

but still, I must speak frankly, Mr Shankly, give us money