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   Oh . . .      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   Oh . . .      Fame, fame, fatal fame   It can play hideous tricks on the brain   But still I rather be famous   Than righteous or holy   Oh, 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   Oh . . .      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 ask   You are a flatulent pain the ass   I do not mean to be so rude   But still, I must speak frankly, Mr Shankly   Oh, give us money