Nat King Cole - Youre the Top Lyrics

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 Louvre 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 divine
You're a Botticelli
You're Keats
You're Shelly

You're Oval-tine
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 G.O.P.
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