I must move fast, you understand me
I want to leave, you will not miss me
Making Christmas cards with the mentally ill
You are a flatulent pain in the ass
I've got the twenty-first century breathing down my neck
Oh, I didn't realize that you wrote poetry
I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I'm a sickening wreck
Fame, fame, fatal fame
Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly
I didn't realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly
But still I'd rather be famous than righteous or holy
I want to go down in musical history
I want to live and I want to love
Any day, any day, any day
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
I do not mean to be so rude
I want to go down in celluloid history, Mr. Shankly
It can play hideous tricks on the brain
But sometimes I'd feel more fulfilled
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've held
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask
