BEEGIE ADAIR
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At words poetic, I’m so pathetic
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That I always have found it best
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Instead of getting 'em off my chest
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To let 'em rest unexpressed
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I hate parading my serenading
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As I’ll probably miss a bar
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But if this ditty is not so pretty
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At least it’ll tell you how great you are
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You’re the top! |
You’re the Colosseum
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You’re the top! |
You’re the Louvre Museum
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You’re a melody from a symphony by Strauss
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You’re a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeart sonnet
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You’re Mickey Mouse
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You’re the Nile, You’re the Tow’r of Pisa
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You’re the smile on the Mona Lisa
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I’m a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop
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But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top!
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Your words poetic are not pathetic
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On the other hand, boy, you shine
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And I can feel after every line
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A thrill divine down my spine
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Now gifted humans like Vincent Youmans
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Might think that your song is bad
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But for a person who’s just rehearsin'
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Well I gotta say this my lad:
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You’re the top! |
You’re Mahatma Ghandi
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You’re the top! |
You’re Napolean brandy
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You’re the purple light of a summer night in Spain
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You’re the National Gall’ry, You’re Garbo’s sal’ry
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You’re cellophane
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You’re sublime, You’re a turkey dinner
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You’re the time of the Derby winner
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I’m a toy balloon that is fated soon to pop
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But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top!
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You’re the top! |
You’re a Ritz hot toddy
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You’re the top! |
You’re a Brewster body
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You’re the boats that glide on the sleepy Zuider Zee
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You’re a Nathan Panning, You’re Bishop Manning
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You’re broccoli
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You’re a prize, You’re a night at Coney
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You’re the eyes of Irene Bordoni
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I’m a broken doll, a fol-de-rol, a blop
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But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top
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You’re the top! |
You’re an Arrow collar
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You’re the top! |
You’re a Coolidge dollar
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You’re the nimble tread of the feet of Fred Astaire
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You’re an O’Neill drama, You’re Whistler’s mama
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You’re Camembert
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You’re a rose, You’re Inferno’s Dante
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You’re the nost of the great Durante
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I’m just in the way, as the French would say
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«De trop,»
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But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top
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You’re the top! |
You’re a Waldorf salad
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You’re the top! |
You’re a Berlin ballad
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You’re a baby grand of a lady and a gent
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You’re an old dutch master, You’re Mrs. Aster
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You’re Pepsodent
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You’re romance, You’re the steppes of Russia
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You’re the pants on a Roxy usher
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I’m a lazy lout that’s just about to stop
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But if Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top!
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You’re the top! |
You’re a dance in Bali
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You’re the top! |
You’re a hot tamale
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You’re an angel, you simply too, too, too divine
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You’re a Botticelli, You’re Keats, You’re Shelley
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You’re Ovaltine
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You’re a boon, You’re the dam at Boulder
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You’re the moon over Mae West’s shoulder
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I’m a nominee of the G.O.P. |
or GOP
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But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top!
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You’re the top! |
You’re the Tower of Babel
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You’re the top! |
You’re the Whitney Stable
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By the River Rhine, You’re a sturdy stein of beer
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You’re a dress from Saks’s, You’re next year’s taxes,'
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You’re stratosphere
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You’re my thoist, You’re a Drumstick Lipstick
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You’re the foist in the Irish svipstick
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I’m a frightened frog that can find no log to hop
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But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top! |