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Herewith my "revision" of the choruses of Cole Porter's classic song "You're the Top." The narrator of the song denigrates himself but heaps praises upon the one being sung to, comparing that person to great people, places, things. My "revision" is made with my high school classmates in mind. I have incorporated people, places, things, activities, and slang expressions that were "the top" in the era 1950-57. I've also included references to some "top" classmates; if there's a name you don't recognize, it's probably one of them. In case you need a refresher, here's a chorus from the original:
You're the top,
You're the Colisseum,
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 Micky 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--Fifties Version (with apologies to Cole Porter)
You're the top,
You're "Be Bop a Lula,"
You're the top,
You're Proudfoot's medulla,
You've got it made in the shade with a phosphate Coke,
You're a poodle skirt,
A white T-shirt,
You're "Gunsmoke."
You're Sputnik,
You're Art De Vos sassy,
You're Lee M., with that classy chassis.
I'm an Edsel junked, Gorgeous George debunked, a pegged-pants fop,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom.
You're the top.
You're the top,
You're Elgin Baylor,
You're the top,
You're a Seattle Rainier,
You're Tutti Frutti in a souped-up Studie, Dorothy Tucker nice,
You're Bazooka Joe,
Lovely Lillian Boe,
You're fuzzy dice.
You're Cunningham wise,
You're "My Friend Flicka,"
You're an iced Colt malt liquor.
I'm a TV dinner, no scholarship winner, never even learned to bop,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom,
You're the top.
You're the top,
You're "Mr. Sandman,"
You're the top,
You're "American Bandstand,"
You're a '50 Ford, leaded and lowered, a dab of Bryll cream goop,
You're "Blueberry Hill,"
You're chlorophyll,
You're no party poop.
You're blue suedes,
You're a silver dollar,
You're the pastel shade on a Peter Pan collar.
I'm Geritol, Clay's study hall, a lame bunny hop,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom,
You're the top.
You're the top,
You're Helga's tresses,
You're the top,
You're the way McAllister dresses,
You're Slo-Mo's roostertail, proud as the "Honky Tonk" wail on a portable radio,
You're a real blast,
The Liz Taylor in the cast,
You're Fats Domino.
You're--like wow, man--in fat city
You're the "Daddy-o" in a Bill Haley ditty.
I'm bad news, I go ape in zoos, I need a frontal lobot,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom,
You're the top.
You're the top,
You're Leo Lassen,
You're the top,
You're a T-Bird passin',
You're okey-dokey like Dick Stokke on KJR,
You're a white-wall tire,
You're "Great Balls of Fire,"
You're a 7Up candy bar.
You're "Lassie,"
You're the Mickey Mouse Club motto,
You're the brassy sound of Perez Prado.
I'm a rat fink, a greasy rink whose hair needs a lop,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom,
You're the top.
You're the top,
You're behind "The Green Door,"
You're the top,
You're four-on-the-floor,
You're second-gear "meat" seeking a Wilson's Drive-In treat, a root-beer float,
You're a Bar S frank,
You're a Billington prank,
You're a tweed top coat.
You're the teen Canteen,
You're Elvis Presley,
You're an "Earth Angel" queen, all make-out nestly.
I'm the Lawrence Welk show, off to squaresville I go, flat as Bireley's orange pop,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom,
You're the top.
You're the top,
You're a Hit Parade jukebox,
You're the top,
You're saddles and bobby sox,
You're Kellogg's Pep, a cat that's hep with a Witte smile,
You're Kjolso's great arm,
Dick Engels' charm,
You're Bannister's four-minute mile.
You're Annette Funicello,
You're a Benny Bengal "rah,"
You're an oh-so mellow "Shangri-la."
I'm a rubber crutch, a burned-out clutch, a gloomy Edmonds raindrop,
But if, 'matey, I'm the bottom,
You're the top.
Next comes my "revision" of the Rodgers and Hart song "The Lady is a Tramp" from Pal Joey. The geezers in my class should be able to relate to much of it. Here's a refresher:
She gets too hungry for dinner at eight
She loves the theater but doesn't come late
She'd never bother with people she'd hate
That's why the lady is a tramp.
Doesn't like crap games with barons and earls
Won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls
Won't dish the dirt with the rest of those girls
That's why the lady is a tramp.
She loves the free, fresh wind in her hair
Life without care
She's broke, but that's OK
She hates California, it's cold and it's damp
That's why the lady is a tramp.
The Geezer is a Gramps (with apologies to Rodgers and Hart)
He gets too hungry for dinner at six
Early-bird specials now give him his fix
Dislikes night driving so won't go to the flicks
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
Doesn't care for tatoos, hip-hop, or rap
Doesn't dig nose-piercings or backward ball caps
He'd never dream of shopping at The Gap
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He doesn't Twitter or follow new trends
He looks for obits about his old friends
Many trips to the bathroom? That all Depends
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He loves the rich spread of a buffet
All that array
Pigs out! Gets gout!
Hates unfamiliar freeways with those confusing exit ramps
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He fears a cold wind on his thin pate
Needs to put more fiber upon his plate
Knows he should lose a little weight
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
Mornings his bones will creak and crack
Yard work may knock his back out of whack
Water aerobics help him get back on track
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He takes Metropolol, Lipitor, and Lanoxin
Ambien, Coumadin, and Levothyroxine
Doc'll add another next time he walks in
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He loves his peaceful afternoon snooze
Lives without booze
No beer--head clear!
No morning-after tremors or cramps
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He likes casinos, the slots and bingo
Discounts and coupons--he speaks that lingo
Too bad his hearing is like Vincent Van Gogh's
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He's got ear hair and then there's that paunch
A hitch in the get-along troubles a haunch
Glad he has no more business ventures to launch
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He plays at golf but can't walk the course
Shanks lots of shots out into the gorse
Gives himself putts without feeling remorse
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He loves nostalgic TV pledge drives
Big band and jive
Knows the songs, hums along
Lights his electric fireplace and turns down the lamps
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
He likes to visit grandkids, those cute little scamps
Gets a little edgy when they crank up the amps
Sighs with relief when it's time to decamp
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
The moths have eaten his old tuxedo
He daren't wear tanktops or a skimpy Speedo
Needs a little blue pill to rouse his libido
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps."
His pecs and biceps have shriveled and shrunk
His jowls and backside have sagged and sunk
Not even Betty White would think him a hunk
That's why the geezer is called "Gramps"--
Yes, that is why the geezer is called "Gramps."
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