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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
Ohh
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I'm a sickening wreck
I've got the twenty-first century breathing down my neck
I must move fast, you understand me
Oh
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, 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 fucking awful poetry, Mr. Shankly
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you do ask
You are a flatulent pain in the arse
I do not mean to be so rude
Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly
Oh, give us money!
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