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