
I'd probably be happy with Greta Garbo's salary, even today. A turkey dinner with waldorf salad and an after-dinner nip of Napoleon brandy? Not so bad. So here's to cellophane -- and a day of snuggling up to your sweetie(s).
You're The Top by Cole Porter
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 the 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 Tow'r 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!
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 is fated soon to pop;
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 nimble tread of the feet of Fred Astaire.
You're an O'Neill drama; you're Whistler's mama; you're Camembert.
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