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