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!
You're the top! You're Mahatma Ghandi! 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!

Your words poetic are not pathetic. On the other hand, boy, 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,
Well for a person who's just rehearsin', well, I gotta say this, my lad:

You're the top! You're Mahatma Ghandi! You're the top! You're Napoleon brandy!
You're the purple light of a summer night in Spain.
You're the National Gall'ry, you're Garbo's sal'ry, 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 Ritz hot toddy! You're the top! You're a Brewster body.
You're the boats that glide on the sleepy Zeider Zee.
You're a Nathan panning, you're a Bishop Manning, you're broccoli.
You're a prize, you're a night at Coney. You're the eyes of Irene Bordoni.
I'm a broken doll, a folderol, a blop. 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 Waldorf salad. You're the top! You're a Berlin ballad.
You're a baby grand of a lady and a gent.
You're an old Dutch master, you're Mrs. Astor, you're Pepsodent.
You're romance, you're the steppes of Russia, you're the pants on a Roxy usher.
I'm a lazy lout that's just about to stop, 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 tamale.
You're an angel, you, simply too, too, too diveen,
You're Botticelli, you're Keats, you're Shelley, 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 the Tower of Babel. You're the top! You're the Whitney Stable.
By the River Rhein you're a sturdy stein of beer,
You're a dress from Saks's, you're next year's taxes, you're stratosphere.
You're my thoist, you're a Drumstick Lipstick, you're the foist in the Irish Svipstick.
I'm a frightened frog that can find no log to hop, but if, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top.

Finale:
You're the top! You're my Swanee River. You're the top! You're a goose's liver.

You're the boy who dares challenge Mrs. Baer's son, Max.
You're a Russian ballet, you're Rudy Vallee, you're Phenolax!
You're much, much more. You're a field of clover
I'm the floor when the ball is over.