Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy Valentine's Day

I've got Cole Porter songs running through my head today. I looked up the lyrics to "You're the Top", because it's such a fun and catchy tune. It was written in 1934 for the musical Anything Goes. I was surprised to find educational lesson plans for teachers and intellectual dissertations about how these particular lyrics illustrate the culture of the 30's so succinctly, by naming all the most prized and valued things of that era - sort of a snapshot into long ago times. Maybe I'm completely out of step, but I can't really find anything on that list that doesn't still sound pretty good.

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.