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 historyFrankly, 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. ShanklyFame, 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 dayBut 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 ofFrankly, 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. ShanklyFrankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask
You are a flatulent pain in the ass
I do not mean to be so rude
Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly
Oh, give us your money
Songwriters
MARR, JOHNNY / MORRISSEY, STEVEN PATRICKPublished by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. Song Discussions is protected by U.S. Patent 9401941. Other patents pending.