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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But least it’ll tell you how great you are
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You’re the top
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You’re the Colosseum
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You’re the top
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You’re the Louvre Museum
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You’re a melody
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From a symphony by Strauss
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You’re a Bendel bonnet
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A Shakespeare 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
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On the Mona Lisa
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I’m a worthless check
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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, babe, 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 I got a notion 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 a turkey dinner
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You’re the time
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Of the Derby winner
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I’m a toy balloon
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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 boon
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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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But if, baby, I’m the bottom
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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 my Swanee River
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You’re the top
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You’re a goose’s liver
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You’re the baby grand
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Of a lady and a gent
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You’re a dress from Saxes
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You’re next year’s taxes
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You’re Pepsodent
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You’re a prize
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You’re a night at Coney
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You’re the eyes
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Of Irene Bordoni
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I’m a frightened frog
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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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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 Zuiderzee
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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
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On a Roxy usher
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I’m a broken doll
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A folderol
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A blop
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But if, baby, I’m the bottom
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But if, baby, I’m the bottom
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But if, baby, I’m the bottom
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You’re the top |