You're the Top - Sutton Foster, Colin Donnell

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

But 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 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 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

But if, baby, I’m the bottom

But if, baby, I’m the bottom

You’re the top

You’re the top

You’re my Swanee River

You’re the top

You’re a goose’s liver

You’re the baby grand

Of a lady and a gent

You’re a dress from Saxes

You’re next year’s taxes

You’re Pepsodent

You’re a prize

You’re a night at Coney

You’re the eyes

Of Irene Bordoni

I’m a frightened frog

That can find no log to hop

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

But if, baby, I’m the bottom

But if, baby, I’m the bottom

You’re the top