You're The Top-Bing Crosby/The Paramount Studio Orch./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 Louver museum You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare's sonnet You're Mickey Mouse, you're the Nile You're the Tower 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 Your words poetic are not pathetic On the other hand, babe, you shine And I can feel after every line A thrill divine, down my spine Now gifted humans like Vincent Youmans Might think that your song is bad But I got a notion, I'll second the motion And this is what I'm going to add 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 turkey dinner You're the time, the time of a 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 a 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 dance in Bali You're the top, you're a hot tamale You're an angel, you simply too, too, too diveen You're a Boticcelli, you're Keats You're Shelly You're Ovaltine, you're a boom You're the dam at Boulder You're the moon Over Mae West's shoulder I'm the nominee of the G.O.P. Or GOP 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 boats that glide On the sleepy Zuider Zee You're an old Dutch master You're Lady Astor, you're broccoli You're romance You're the steppes of Russia You're the pants, on a Roxy usher I'm a broken doll, a fol, de, rol, a blop But if baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top