THIS MONTH’S PARODY (November) You’re the Top

Cole Porter

The best known song from the 1934 musical Anything Goes, ‘You’re the Top’ comes from Act 1 and is about a man and a woman (Billy and Reno) taking turns at complimenting each other. It inspired hundreds of parodies, most of them ribald. Here are just two following the Porter original (which, incidentally, was re-written for the English production by P G Wodehouse who wrote the original book of the musical with Guy Boulton).

You’re the top!
You’re the Coliseum.
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’s 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 turkey dinner,
You’re the time, the time of a 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 Miss Pinkham’s tonic.
You’re the top!
You’re a high colonic.
You’re the burning heat of a bridal suite in use.
You’re the breasts of Venus
You’re King Kong’s penis,
You’re self-abuse.
You’re an arch
In the Rome collection.
You’re the starch
In a groom’s erection.
I’m a eunuch who
Has just been through an op,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top.

Jimmie Pearse in The New Statesman; date unknown
You’re the pits!
You’re the Yorkshire Ripper.
You’re the tits
Of an ageing stripper.
You’re the sort of job
Any decent yob avoids,
You’re a BUPA doctor
You’re Harvey Proctor,
You’re haemorrhoids.
You’re the AIDS
In a guardsman’s jockstrap.
You’re the slightly sinister deal
The Minister fixes up at the Ritz –
So if baby I’m the summit,
You’re the pits.

You’re a suit
Made of grotty lurex.
You’re Beirut.
You’re a punctured Durex.
You’re the House of Lords with its
Bunch of frauds and shams.
You’re atom fall-out
You’re England all out,
You’re traffic jams.
You’re the cane,
You’re a frontbench scandal.
You’re the brain
Of a football vandal.
You’re the twelve-wheeled tanker
A secret wanker
Who’s slowly losing his wits –
But if baby I’m the summit,
You’re the pits.

One Comment

Leave a Reply

Your email is never shared.Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.