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Billy, where's the old Crocker confidence You
Think he's got one tiny fraction of your brains
Your looks, your... your...
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
But least it'll tell you
How great you are.
You're the top
You're the Colosseum.
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 is 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 Boticcelli
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