Frankly, Mr. Shankly - The Smiths

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 twenty-first 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 realize that you wrote poetry

I didn’t realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly

Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask

You are a flatulent pain in the a**

I do not mean to be so rude

Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly

Oh, give us your money