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
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How great you are.
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You’re the top!
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You’re the Coliseum.
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You’re the top!
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You’re the Louver Museum.
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You’re a melody from a symphony by Strauss
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You’re a Bendel bonnet,
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A Shakespeare’s sonnet,
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You’re Mickey Mouse.
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You’re the Nile,
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You’re the Tower 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 you’re the top!
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Your words poetic are not pathetic.
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On the other hand, babe, you shine,
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And I can feel after every line
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A thrill divine
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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 I got a notion
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I’ll second the motion
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And this is what I’m going to add;
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You’re the top!
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You’re Mahatma Gandhi.
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You’re the top!
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You’re Napoleon Brandy.
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You’re the purple light
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Of a summer night in Spain,
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You’re the National Gallery
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You’re Garbo’s salary,
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You’re cellophane.
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You’re sublime,
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You’re turkey dinner,
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You’re the time, the time of a Derby winner
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I’m a toy balloon that’s 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!
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You’re an arrow collar
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You’re the top!
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You’re a Coolidge dollar,
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You’re the nimble tread
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Of the feet of Fred Astaire,
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You’re an O’Neill drama,
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You’re Whistler’s mama!
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You’re camembert.
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You’re a rose,
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You’re Inferno’s Dante,
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You’re the nose
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On the great Durante.
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I’m just in a way,
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As the French would say, «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!
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You’re a dance in Bali.
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You’re the top!
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You’re a hot tamale.
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You’re an angel, you,
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Simply too, too, too diveen,
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You’re a Boticcelli,
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You’re Keats,
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You’re Shelly!
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You’re Ovaltine!
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You’re a boom,
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You’re the dam at Boulder,
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You’re the moon,
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Over Mae West’s shoulder,
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I’m the nominee of the G.O.P.
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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!
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You’re a Waldorf salad.
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You’re the top!
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You’re a Berlin ballad.
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You’re the boats that glide
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On the sleepy Zuider Zee,
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You’re an old Dutch master,
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You’re Lady Astor,
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You’re broccoli!
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You’re romance,
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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 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! |