THE SMITHS

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Frankly, Mr Shankly, this position Ive held
it pays my way, but it corrodes my soul
I want to leave you will not miss me
I want to go down in musical history

Frankly, Mr Shankly, Im a sickening wreck
Ive got the 21st Century breathing down my neck
I must move fast, you understand me
I want to go down in celluloid history

Fame, Fame, fatal Fame
it can play hideous tricks on the brain
but still I rather be Famous
than righteous or holy, any day

but sometimes Id 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 didnt realise that you wrote poetry
(I didnt realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry)

Frankly, Mr Shankly, since you ask
you are a flatulent pain the arse
I do not mean to be so rude
but still, I must speck frankly, Mr Shankly

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