Frankly, Mr Shankly, this position Ive 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, Im a sickening wreck

Ive 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 rather be Famous

than righteous or holy, any day



but sometimes Id 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 didnt realise that you wrote poetry

(I didnt realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry)



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 speck frankly, Mr Shankly