Goes."
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Sung by Miss Merman and Bing Crosby in the first film version in 1936 and
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by Crosby, Mitzi Gaynor, Donald O’Connor and Jeanmarie in the second film
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version in 1956.
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Sung by Ginny Simms and Cary Grant in the 1946 film «Night and Day.»
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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 diveen,
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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 thje 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 da foist in da 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!
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From: Gloria «Montcomags» |