Lyrics You're the Top - John Barrowman , Sally Ann Triplett

No, no
Guys like me deliver her groceries
They don't walk her down the aisle
Besides, she's engaged to some English guy
An Earl, or something

Uh, Billy!
Where's the old Crocker confidence?
You think that teabag can compete with you?
You think he's got one tiny fraction of your brains?
Your looks?
Your... your

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 Colosseum
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 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 a turkey dinner
You're the time
Of the 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 the 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 boon
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 Zuiderzee
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 folderol, a blop

But if, baby, I'm the bottom
You're the top