Vol. Three: Cole Porter / You're the Top

歌詞

At words poetic, I'm so pathetic That I always have found it best, Instead of getting 'em off my chest, To let 'em rest unexpressed, I hate parading my serenading As I'll probably miss a bar, But if this ditty is not so pretty At least it'll tell you How great you are. You're the top! You're the Coliseum. You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum. You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss You're a Bendel bonnet, A Shakespeare's sonnet, You're Mickey Mouse. You're the Nile, You're the Tower of Pisa, You're the smile on the Mona Lisa I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop, But if, baby, I'm the bottom you're the top! Your words poetic are not pathetic. On the other hand, babe, you shine, And I can feel after every line A thrill divine Down my spine. Now gifted humans like Vincent Youmans Might think that your song is bad, But I got a notion I'll second the motion And this is what I'm going to add; You're the top! You're Mahatma Gandhi. You're the top! You're Napoleon Brandy. You're the purple light Of a summer night in Spain, You're the National Gallery You're Garbo's salary, You're cellophane. You're sublime, You're turkey dinner, You're the time of a Derby winner, I'm a toy balloon that's fated soon to pop But if, baby, I'm the bottom, You're the top! You're the top! You're an arrow collar You're the top! You're a Coolidge dollar, You're the nimble tread Of the feet of Fred Astaire, You're an O'Neill drama, You're Whistler's mama! You're camembert. You're a rose, You're Inferno's Dante, You're the nose On the great Durante. I'm just in a way, As the French would say, "de trop". But if, baby, I'm the bottom, You're the top! You're the top! You're a dance in Bali. You're the top! You're a hot tamale. You're an angel, you, Simply too, too, too diveen, You're a Botticelli, You're Keats, You're Shelley! You're Ovaltine! You're a boom, You're the dam at Boulder, You're the Moon, Over Mae West's shoulder, I'm the nominee of the G.O.P. Or GOP! But if, baby, I'm the bottom, You're the top! You're the top! You're a Waldorf salad. You're the top! You're a Berlin ballad. You're the boats that glide On the sleepy Zuider Zee, You're an old Dutch master, You're Lady Astor, You're broccoli! You're romance, You're the steppes of Russia, You're the pants, on a Roxy usher, I'm a broken doll, a fol-de-rol, a blop, But if, baby, I'm the bottom, You're the top!