You're the Top - written by Cole Porter, belted by Ethel Merman
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 the melody from a symphony by Strauss. You're a Bendel bonnet, A Shakespeare sonnet, You're Mickey Mouse!
You're the Nile! You're the Tow'r 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! 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 a turkey dinner. You're the time of the 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 the 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 Waldorf salad. You're the top! You're a Berlin ballad. You're the baby grand of a lady and a gent You're an old Dutch master, You're Mrs. Astor, You're Pepsodent!
You're romance, You're the steppes of Russia, You're the pants On a Roxy usher. I'm a lazy lout that's just about to stop
But if, baby, I'm the bottom, You're the top!