Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've heldIt pays my way, and it corrodes my soulI want to leave, you will not miss meI want to go down in musical historyFrankly, Mr. Shankly, I'm a sickening wreckI've got the 21st century breathing down my neckI must move fast, you understand meI want to go down in celluloid history, Mr. ShanklyFame, Fame, fatal FameIt can play hideous tricks on the brainBut still I'd rather be FamousThan righteous or holy, any dayAny day, any dayBut sometimes I'd feel more fulfilledMaking Christmas cards with the mentally illI want to live and I want to LoveI want to catch something that I might be ashamed ofFrankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've heldIt pays my way and it corrodes my soulOh, I didn't realise that you wrote poetryI didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. ShanklyFrankly, Mr. Shankly, since you askYou are a flatulent pain in the arseI do not mean to be so rudeStill, I must speak frankly, Mr. ShanklyOh, give us your money !