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'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 bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly 

Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask 
You are a flatulent pain in the [bad word] 
I do not mean to be [bad word] 
Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly 

Oh, give us your money !