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, 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 Shelly!
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!
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