Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've held

It pays my way, but 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



Fame, Fame, fatal Fame

It can play hideous tricks on the brain

But still I'd rather be Famous

Than righteous or holy, 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 realize that you wrote poetry

(I didn't realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry)



Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask

You are a flatulent pain the ass

I do not mean to be so rude

But still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly