LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT LOVE (abridged lyrics -- from Let's Face It, 1941)
My buddies all tell me selectees
Are expected by ladies to neck-tease,
I could talk about love and why not?
But believe me, it wouldn't be so hot.
So --
Let's speak of Lamarr, that Hedy so fair,
Why does she let Joan Bennett wear all her old hair?
If you know Garbo, then tell me this news,
Is it a fact the Navy's launched all her old shoes?
Let's check on the veracity of Barrymore's bibacity
And why his drink capacity should get so much publacity,
Let's even have a huddle over Ha'vard Univassity,
But let's not talk about love.
Let's wish him good luck, let's wish him more pow'r
That Fiorella fella, my favorite flow'r,
Let's get some champagne from over the seas,
And drink to Sammy Goldwyn,
Include me out please.
Let's write a tune that's playable, a ditty swing-and-swayable,
Or say whatever's sayable, about the Tow'r of Ba-abel,
Let's cheer for the career of itty-bitty Betty Gra-abel,
But let's not talk about love.
Let's talk about drugs, let's talk about dope.
Let's try to picture Paramount minus Bob Hope.
Let's start a new dance, let's try a new step.
Or investigate the source of Missus Roosevelt's pep.
Why not discuss my dee-arie.
The life of Wallace Bee-ry
Or bring a jeroboam on
And write a drunken poem on
Astrology, mythology,
Geology, philology,
Pathology, psychology,
Electro-physiology,
Spermology, phrenology?
I owe you an apology,
But let's not talk about love.
In case you play cards, I've got some right here.
So how about a game o' gin rummy, my dear?
Or if you feel warm and bathin's your whim,
Let's get in the all-together and enjoy a short swim.
No, honey, ah suspect you-all
Of bein' intellectual
And so, instead of gushin' on,
Let's have a big discussion on
Timidity, stupidity, solidity, frigidity,
Avidity, turbidity, Manhattan, and viscidity,
Fatality, morality, legality, finality,
Neutrality, reality, or Southern hospitality,
Pomposity, verbosity,
You're losing your velocity,
But let's not talk about love.
LET'S TALK ABOUT LOVE / LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT LOVE (complete lyric --from Let's Face It, 1941)
Let’s talk about love, that wonderful thing,
Let’s blend the scent of Venice with Paris in Spring,
Let’s gaze at that moon and try to believe
We’re Venus and Adonis, or Adam and Eve,
Let’s throw away anxiety, let’s quite forget propriety,
Respectable society, the rector and his piety,
And contemplate l’amour in all its infinite variety,
My dear, let’s talk about love.
Pretend you’re Chopin and I’ll be George Sand,
We’re on the Grand Canal and, oh baby, it’s grand!
Let’s mention Walkures and helmeted knights,
I’m beautiful Bruennhilde, you’re Siegfried in tights,
Let’s curse the asininity of tribal consanguinity,
Let’s praise the masculinity of Dietrich’s new affinity,
Let’s picture Cleopatra saying “Scram” to her virginity,
My dear, let’s talk about love.
The weather’s so warm and you are so cute,
Let’s dream about Tahiti and tropical fruit,
I’ve always said men were simply deevine,
(Did you know Peggy Joyce was once a pupil of mine?)
Let’s gather miscellania on Oberon’s Titania,
Or ladies even branier who’ve moved to Pennsylvania,
(Bucks County, so I hear, is just a nest of nymphomania)
My dear, let’s talk about love.
My buddies all tell me selectees
Are expected by ladies to neck-tease,
I could talk about love and why not?
But believe me, it wouldn’t be so hot,
So
Let’s talk about frogs, let’s talk about toads,
Let’s try to solve the riddle why chickens cross roads,
Let’s talk about games, let’s talk about sports,
Let’s have a big debate about ladies in shorts,
Let’s question the synonymy of freedom and autonomy,
Let’s delve into astronomy, political economy,
Or if you’re feeling biblical, the book of Deuteronomy,
But let’s not talk about love.
Let’s ride the New Deal, like Senator Glass,
Let’s telephone Ickes and order more gas,
Let’s curse the Old Guard and Hamilton Fish,
Forgive me, dear, if Fish is your favorite dish,
Let’s heap some more profanities on Hitler’s inhumanities,
Let’s argue if insanity’s the cause of his inanities,
Let’s weigh the Shubert Follies with The Ear-rl Carroll Vanities,
But let’s not talk about love.
Let’s talk about drugs, let’s talk about dope,
Let’s try to picture Paramount minus Bob Hope,
Let’s start a new dance, let’s try a new step,
Or investigate the source of Mrs. Roosevelt’s pep,
Why not discuss, my dee-arie,
The life of Wallace Bee-ery,
Or bring a jeroboam on
And write a drunken poem on
Astrology, mythology,
Geology, philology,
Pathology, psychology,
Electro-physiology,
Spermology, phrenology,
I owe you an apology
But let’s not talk about love.
Let’s speak of Lamarr, that Hedy so fair,
Why does she let Joan Bennett wear all her old hair?
If you know Garbo, then tell me this news,
Is it a fact the Navy’s launched all her old shoes?
Let’s check on the veracity of Barrymore’s bibacity
And why his drink capacity should get so much publacity,
Let’s even have a huddle over Ha’vard Univassity,
But let’s not talk about love.
Let’s wish him good luck, let’s wish him more pow’r,
That Fiorella fella, my favorite flow’r,
Let’s get some champagne from over the seas,
And drink to Sammy Goldwyn,
Include me out please.
Let’s write a tune that’s playable, a ditty swing-and-swayable
Or say whatever’s sayable about the Tow’r of Ba-abel,
Let’s cheer for the career of itty-bitty Betty Gra-abel,
But let’s not talk about love.
In case you play cards, I’ve got some right here
So how about a game o’ gin-rummy, my dear?
Or if you feel warm and bathin’s your whim,
Let’s get in the all-together and enjoy a short swim,
No honey, I suspect you all
Of bein’ intellectual
And so, instead of gushin’ on,
Let’s have a big discussion on
Timidity, stupidity, solidity, frigidity,
Avidity, turbidity, Manhattan and viscidity,
Fatality, morality, legality, finality,
Neutrality, reality, or Southern hospitality,
Pomposity, verbosity,
You’re loosing your velocity
But let’s not talk about love.
THE TALE OF THE OYSTER (Fifty Million Frenchmen,1929)
Down by the sea lived a lonesome oyster,
Ev'ry day getting sadder and moister.
He found his home life awf'lly wet,
And longed to travel with the upper set.
Poor little oyster.
Fate was kind to that oyster we know,
When one day the chef from the Park Casino
Saw that oyster lying there,
And said "I'll put you on my bill of fare."
Lucky little oyster.
See him on his silver platter,
Watching the queens of fashion chatter.
Hearing the wives of millionaires
Discuss their marriages and their love affairs.
Thrilled little oyster.
See that bivalve social climber
Feeding the rich Mrs. Hoggenheimer,
Think of his joy as he gaily glides
Down to the middle of her gilded insides.
Proud little oyster.
After lunch Mrs. H. complains,
And says to her hostess, "I've got such pains.
I came to town on my yacht today,
But I think I'd better hurray back to Oyster Bay."
Scared little oyster.
Off they go thru the troubled tide,
The yacht rolling madly from side to side.
They're tossed about 'til that fine young oyster
Finds that it's time he should quit his cloister,
Up comes the oyster.
Back once more where he started from,
He murmured, "I haven't a single qualm,
For I've had a taste of society,
And society has had a taste of me."
Wise little oyster.
WHERE WOULD YOU GET YOUR COAT? (Fifty MillionFrenchmen, 1929)
As a buyer for a firm that deals in ladies' fur coats
I get sort of pessimistic now and then.
That's because so many women who invest in our coats
Spend so many evenings out with other men.
I wish they'd simply take a few notes
From the animals who make their coats.
For if the dear little ermines in Siberia
On their dear little husbands didn't dote,
If the dear little possum
Didn't let their husbands boss 'em,
Tell me, where would you get your coat?
If the dear little caraculs in Syria
All their time to their mates did not devote,
If the deal little sables ever told their husbands fables,
Tell me, where would you get your coat?
If you modern wives led more domestic lives
And started singing, "Home, Sweet Home,"
There would be no more divorce
In Paris, and of course,
There'd be no more annulments in Rome.
For if the dear little foxes had hysteria
When their mates fondly grabbed them by the throat,
If the dear little rabbits
Weren't so bourgeois in their habits,
Tell me, where would you get your coat?
And if the dear little lamb in Lithuania
Ever had a flirtation with a goat,
If home life didn't thrill a South American chinchilla
Tell me, where would you get your coat?
If the dear little skunk in Pennsylvania
Over her dear little husband didn't gloat,
If the dear little beaver
Were a birth-control believer,
Tell me, where would you get your coat?
Now, if each wife I see
Would only try to be
Content to make her husbands bed,
Cholly Knickerbocker might have nothing to write
And Town Topics would cease to be read.
For if the dear little mink should get a mania
For some hair-raising gigolo of note,
If the dear little squirrel
Quit her mate 'cause he was virile,
Tell me, where would you get your coat?
FIND ME A PRIMITIVE MAN (Fifty Million Frenchmen,1929)
Now, before this modern idea had burst
About the women and children first,
The men had much more charm than they have today.
And if only one of that type survived,
The very moment that he arrived,
I know I'd fall in love in a great big way.
I can't imagine being bad
With any Arrow collar ad,
Nor could I take the slightest joy
In waking up a college boy.
I've no desire to be alone
With Rudy Vallee's megaphone,
So when I'm saying my prayers, I say:
Find me a primitive man,
Built on a primitive plan.
Someone with vigor and vim.
I don't mean a kind that belongs to a club,
But the kind that has a club that belongs to him.
I could be the personal slave
Of someone just out of a cave.
The only man who'll ever win me
Has gotta wake up the gypsy in me,
Find me a primitive man,
Find me a primitive man.
Trouve moi un homme primitif
Trouve moi un garcon naif.
Quelqu'un tout plein de vigeur,
Ces p'tits maquereaux qu'on appelle gigolos ne
Pourraient jamais donner le vrai bonheur.
J'ai besoin d'un bel animal
Pour chauffeur mon chaffage centrale.
Et l'homme qui me veut pour capitane
Devrait reveiler mon sang tzigane,
Trouve moi un homme primitif, vif,
Trouve moi un homme primitif.
(Find me a primitive man,
Find me a forthright young lad,
Someone with vigor to spare,
Those fatuous beaux they call gigolos could never give me happiness.
I must have a gorgeous beast
To heat up my own central heat.
And he who aspires to be my stud
Must reawake my gypsy blood.
Find me a primitive man.)
WHICH? (Wake Up and Dream, 1929)
Which is the right life,
The simple or the night life?
When, pray, should one rise,
At sunset or at sunrise?
Which should be upper,
My breakfast or my supper?
Which is the right life,
Which?
If the wood nymph left the park,
Would Park Avenue excite her?
Would the glowworm trade her spark
For the latest Dunhill lighter?
Here's a question I would pose,
Tell me which the sweeter smell makes,
The aroma of the rose,
Or the perfume that Chanel makes?
Which land is dreamier,
Arcadia or Bohemia?
Who'll tell me the answer,
The daisy or the dancer?
Which life is for me,
The peaceful or the stormy?
Which is the right man,
Walt Whitman or Paul Whiteman,
Which?
Should I read Euripides or continue with The Graphic?
Hear the murmur of the breeze or the roaring of the traffic?
Should I make one man my choice
And regard divorce as treason,
Or should I, like Peggy Joyce,
Get a new one ev'ry season?
Which is the right life,
The simple or the night life?
When, pray, should one rise,
At sunset or at sunrise?
Which should be upper,
My breakfast or my supper?
Which is the right life,
Which?
I'M A GIGOLO (Wake Up and Dream, 1929)
I should like you all to know,
I'm a famous gigolo.
And of lavender, my nature's got just a dash in it.
As I'm slightly undersexed,
You will always find me next
To some dowager who's wealthy rather than passionate.
Go to one of those night club places
And you'll find me stretching my braces
Pushing ladies with lifted faces 'round the floor.
But I must confess to you
There are moments when I'm blue.
And I ask myself whatever I do it for.
I'm a flower that blooms in the winter,
Sinking deeper and deeper in snow.
I'm a baby who has
No mother but jazz,
I'm a gigolo.
Ev'ry morning, when labor is over,
To my sweet-scented lodgings I go,
Take the glass from the shelf
And look at myself,
I'm a gigolo.
I get stocks and bonds
From faded blondes
Ev'ry twenty-fifth of December.
Still I'm just a pet
That men forget
And only tailors remember.
Yet when I see the way all the ladies
Treat their husbands who put up the dough,
You cannot think me odd
If then I thank God
I'm a gigolo.
MISS OTIS REGRETS (independent song, 1934)
Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today,
Madam,
Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today.
She is sorry to be delayed,
But last evening down in lover's lane she strayed,
Madam,
Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today.
When she woke up and found
That her dream of love was gone,
Madam,
She ran to the man
Who had led her so far astray,
And from under her velvet gown
She drew a gun and shot her lover down,
Madam,
Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today.
When the mob came and got her
And dragged her from the jail,
Madam,
They strung her upon
The old willow across the way,
And the moment before she died
She lifted up her lovely head and cried,
Madam,
"Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today."
DOWN IN THE DEPTHS (Red, Hot and Blue, 1936)
Manhattan—I'm up a tree,
The one I've most adored
Is bored
With me.
Manhattan, I'm awf'lly nice,
Nice people dine with me,
And even twice.
Yet the only one in the world
I'm mad about
Talks of somebody else
And walks out.
With a million neon rainbows burning below me
And a million blazing taxis raising a roar
Here I sit, above the town
In my pet pailletted gown'
Down in the depths on the ninetieth floor.
While the crowds at El Morocco punish the parquet
And at "21" the couples clamor for more,
I'm deserted and depressed
In my regal eagle nest
Down in the depths on the ninetieth floor.
When the only one you wanted wants another
What's the use of swank and cash in the bank galore?
Why, even the janitor's wife
Has a perfectly good love life
And here am I
Facing tomorrow
Alone with my sorrow
Down in the depths on the ninetieth floor.
THE LEADER OF A BIG-TIME BAND (Something forthe Boys, 1943)
If a girl in any sector
Makes you feel like a puppy called Hector,
And you're longing to subject 'er,
To elect 'er your wife and protect 'er,
If she's just as sweet as nectar,
But of your job she's no respecter,
Become a top band director
And you never, never will miss.
In the old days, when a maid desired to wed,
Any man who'd foot the bill could fill the bed,
But today the lad who's sure to win her hand
Is the leader of a big-time band.
Even gals who go for wrestlers quit 'em quick
When they meet some guy who sings and swings a stick,
For of late the only date they long to land
Is the leader of a big-time band.
When they hear Harry James
Make with the lips,
The most Colonial dames
Fracture their hips,
So if thee would like to be in great demand,
Be the leader of a big-time band.
In the gilded age, a Wall Street millionaire
Was the answer to a working maiden's prayer,
But today she'd chuck that yearly fifty grand
For the leader of a big-time band.
In the days when Casanova was the tops
All his rivals with the femmes were famous flops,
But today who's got that extra monkey gland?
Why, the leader of a big-time band.
When Goodman, champ of champs,
Goes blowin' blue,
Rum-ridden debutramps
Nearly come to.
'Cause there's nothing, when you're out, like being fanned
By the leader of a big-time band.
In the days when old King Louie held the scene,
Any Jock who had the Jack could play the Queen,
But today who'd come and play that baby grand?
Why, the leader of a big-time band.
When, in Venice, Georgia Sand with Chopin romped,
Her libido had the Lido simply swamped,
But today who would be buried in the Sand?
Why, the leader of a big-time band.
When Dorsey starts to tilt
That horn about,
Dear Missus Vanderbilt
Bumps herself out,
So, if, say, you still can play a one-night stand,
Be the leader of a big-time band.
When in Reno ladies we know used to clown,
All the chaps who wore the shaps could wear 'em down,
But today the only rider they demand
Is the leader of a big-time band.
When Salome got John the B. and by the head,
It appears he wasn't kosher in da bed.
But todoy who'd be the goy she'd loyke to land?
Why, the leader of a big-time band.
When Cugat comes to tea
With Gypsy Rose,
She gets so het up she
Puts on her clothes,
And she only turns one cheek while being scanned
By the leader of a big-time band,
By the leader of a band,
By the leader of a big-time band.
FARMING (Let's Face It, 1943)
Here's a bit of news that's quite a shocker
Proving Mother Nature still has charm,
Quoting Mr. Cholly Knickerbocker,
"Get in the swim and buy a farm."
Acres of alfalfa, fields of clover
Suddenly enchant our top "Who's Who,"
So the moment all this row is over
What say if we go hay-seed too?
For
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrities of today.
Kit Cornell is shellin' peas,
Lady Mendl's climbin' trees,
Dear Mae West is at her best in the hay,
Stomping through the thickets,
Romping with the crickets,
Make's 'em feel more glamorous and more gay,
They tell me cows who are feeling milky
All give cream when they're milked by Wilkie,
Farming is so charming they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrities of today.
Monty Woolley, so I heard,
Has boll weevils in his beard,
Michael Strange has got the mange, will it stay?
Mussing up the clover,
Cussing when it's over,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay.
The natives think it's utterly utter
When Margie Hart start churning her butter,
Farming is so charming, they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrities of today.
Fannie Hurst is haulin' logs,
Fannie Brice is feedin' hogs,
Garbo-peep has led her sheep all astray,
Singing while their rakin',
Bringing home the bacon,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay.
Miss Elsa Maxwell, so the folks tattle,
Got well-goosed while de-horning her cattle,
Farming is so charming, they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrities of today.
Don't inquire of Georgie Raft
Why his cow has never calfed,
Georgie's bull is beautiful, but he's gay!
Seeing spring a-coming,
Being minus plumbing,
Make 'em feel informal and degage.
When Cliff Odets found a new tomater
He ploughed under the Group Theyater,
Farming is so charming, they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrites of today.
Steinbeck's growing Grapes of Wrath,
Guy Lombardo, rumor hath,
Toots his horn and all the corn starts to sway,
Racing like the dickens,
Chasing after chickens,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay,
Liz Whitney has, on her bin of manure, a
Clip designed by the Duke of Verdura,
Farming is so charming, they all say.
(Rejected lyrics include:)
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrites of today.
Digging in his fertile glen,
Goldwyn dug up Anna Sten,
Fred Astaire has raised a hare and its gray.
Clowning in their mittens,
Drowning extra kittens,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay.
Paul Whiteman, while he was puttin' up jelly,
Ate so much he recovered his belly,
Farming is so charming, they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion
Of our great celebrities of today.
Missus Henry Morganthau
Looks so chic behind a plow,
Mrs. Hearst is at her worst on a dray.
Tearing after possum,
Wearing just a blossom,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay,
Why, Orson Welles, that wonderful actor,
Has Del Rio driving a tractor.
Farming is so charming, they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion,
Of our great celebrities of today.
Just to keep her roosters keen,
Dietrich that great movie queen,
Lifts her leg and lays an egg, what a lay.
Going after rabbits,
Knowing all their habits,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay.
So Harpo Marx, in a moment of folly,
Had his barn repainted by Dali.
Farming is charming, they all say.
Farming, that's the fashion,
Farming, that's the passion,
Of our great celebrities of today.
Lynn Fontanne is brandin' steer,
Sophie Tucker, so I hear,
Rides en masse upon an ass, hip-hooray.
Hoeing new potatoes,
Throwing all tomatoes,
Makes 'em feel more glamorous and more gay.
So Clifton Webb has parked his Ma, Mabel,
"Way Down East" in a broken-down stable,
Farming is so charming, they all say.
WHERE, OH WHERE? (Out of This World,1950)
I often ask
Because I feel
I've ev'ry right to ask,
"Will time take on the task
To reveal,
Yes or no,
My beau
Ideal?"
For even though,
When I'm abed,
I dream he holds me tight,
Awake, I never light
On the man
I plan
One day to wed.
Where, oh where
Is that combination so rare,
A cute knight in armor,
Completely a charmer
Who'd still be a millionaire?
Where, oh where
Is that combination so rare,
A youth who is able
To wrap me in sable
Who'd still be a love affair?
I could accept a cottage small
By a roaring waterfall,
Yet I'd much prefer a castle cool
By a marble swimming pool.
But where, oh where
Is that combination so rare,
A highly admissable, kissable boy
To fill me with, practic'lly kill me with joy
Who'd still be a millionaire?
Tell me where,
Oh where,
Oh where.
Where, oh where
Is that combination so rare,
A swain even sweller
Than John Rockefeller
Who'd still be a love affair?
Where, oh where
Is that combination so rare,
A God's-gift-to-women,
With passion a-brimmin'
Who'd still be a millionaire?
If I should own a castle cool
By a marble swimming pool,
I might often miss that cottage small
By a roaring waterfall.
So where, oh where
Is that combination so rare,
A tip-top tycoon, silver-spoon sort of egg,
Who's batty for dresses by Hattie Carneg,
Who'd still be a love affair?
Tell me where,
Oh where,
Oh where.
IS IT THE GIRL (OR IS IT THE GOWN)? (Seven Lively Arts, 1944)
Mister Romeo,
Say you’re at some show
But each girl so far
Has been under par
When, lo and behold, stage center,
You see a perfect Juliet enter.
She so drives you mad
That you wish you had
Just a cottage cool
By a swimming pool
With her waiting there for Daddy.
Well, before you grow fonder,
Stop and ponder, laddie.
Is it the girl or is it the gown?
Which one of the two do you love?
Is it her hair you long to caress
Or is it that exquisite dress?
Is she the dream of all you desire
Or is it her frock
That happens to knock you down?
Is it the girl you love so dearly
Or is it merely her beautiful gown?
I'VE A SHOOTING BOX IN SCOTLAND (revisedfor See America First, published 1916)
Nowadays, it’s rather nobby
To regard one’s private hobby
As the object of one’s tenderest affections;
Some excel at Alpine climbing
Others have a turn for rhyming,
While a lot of people go in for collections.
Such as prints by Hiroshigi,
Edelweiss from off the Rigi,
Jacobean soup tureens,
Early types of limousines,
Pipes constructed from a dry cob,
Baseball hits by Mister Ty Cobb,
Locks of Mrs. Browning’s hair,
Photographs of Ina Claire,
First editions still uncut,
Daily pranks of Jeff and Mutt,
Della Robia singing boys,
Signatures of Alfred Noyes,
Fancy bantams,
Grecian vases,
Tropic beetles,
Irish laces,
But my favorite pastime
Is collecting country places.
I’ve a shooting box in Scotland,
I’ve a chateau in Touraine,
I’ve a silly little chalet
In the Interlaken Valley,
I’ve a hacienda in Spain,
I’ve a private fjord in Norway,
I’ve a villa close to Rome,
And in traveling
It’s really quite a comfort to know
That you’re never far from home!
Now it’s really very funny
What an awful lot of money
On exorbitant hotels a chap can squander;
But I never have to do so,
Like resourceful Mister Crusoe,
I can find a home however far I wander.
I’ve a bungalow at Simla,
I’ve an island east of Maine,
If you care for hotter places,
I’ve an African oasis
On an uninhabited plain;
I’ve a houseboat on the Yangtse,
I’ve an igloo up at Nome,
Yes, in traveling
It’s really quite a comfort to know
That you’re never far from home!
Having lots of idle leisure
I pursue a life of pleasure,
Like a rolling stone in constant agitation
For tho’ stay-at-homes may cavil,
I admit I’d rather travel,
Than collect a crop of mossy vegetation!
I’ve a shanty in the Rockies,
I’ve a castle on the Rhine,
I’ve a Siamese pagoda,
I’ve a cottage in Fashoda,
Near the equatorial line!
On my sable farm in Russia
O’er the barren steppes we’ll roam,
And in traveling
It’s really quite a comfort to know
That you’re never far from home.
I LOVE PARIS (from Can-Can, 1955)
Ev’ry time I look down
On this timeless town,
Whether blue or gray be her skies,
Whether loud be her cheers
Or whether soft be her tears,
More and more do I realize
I love Paris in the springtime,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles,
I love Paris ev’ry moment,
Ev’ry moment of the year.
I love Paris,
Why, oh, why do I love Paris?
Because my love is near.
(From ANYTHING GOES, 1934)
I GET A KICK OUT OF YOU
My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically ev'rything leaves me totally cold.
The only exception I know is the case
When I'm out on a quiet spree
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face.
I get no kick from champagne.
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true,
That I get a kick out of you?
Some get a kick from cocaine.
I'm sure that if I took even one sniff
That would bore me terrific'ly too
Yet I get a kick out of you.
I get a kick ev'ry time I see
You're standing there before me.
I get a kick though it's clear to me
You obviously don't adore me.
I get no kick in a plane.
Flying too high with some guy in the sky
Is my idea of nothing to do,
Yet I get a kick out of you.
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT
The day is my enemy,
The night my friend,
For I'm always so alone
Till the day comes to an end.
But when the sun goes down
And the moon comes through,
To the monotone of evening's drone
I'm all alone with you.
All through the night I delight in your love.
All through the night you're so close to me.
All through the night from a height far above,
You and your love bring me ecstasy.
When dawn comes to waken me,
You're never there at all.
I know you've forsaken me
Till the shadows fall;
But then once again I can dream I've the right
To be close to you all through the night.
If I stopped to think twice
I know I'd hurry away,
But it is all so nice
So I'll only think once and stay.
All through the night I delight in your love.
All through the night, oh so close to me.
All through the night, under bright stars above
You and your love will bring me ecstasy.
When dawn's overtaken us, we'll sadly say goodbye,
Till dreams reawaken us and the moon is high.
And then, once again, will I know I was right
Staying close to you, all through the night.
YOU'RE THE TOP
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 Colliseum.
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, 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,
But for a person who's just rehearsin'
Well, I gotta say this my lad:
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 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's 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 the glide on the sleepy Zuider Zee,
You're a Nathan panning,
You're 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 fol-de-rol, 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 hot tamale.
You're an angel, you, simply too, too, too diveen,
You're a 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 Rhine,
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 do foist,
In da 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!
ANYTHING GOES
Times have changed
And we've often rewound the clock
Since the Puritans got a shock
When they landed on Plymouth Rock.
If today
Any shock they should try to stem,
'Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock,
Plymouth Rock would land on them.
In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking,
But now, God knows,
Anything goes.
Good authors too who once knew better words
Now only use four-letter words
Writing prose,
Anything goes.
If driving fast cars you like,
If low bars you like,
If old hymns you like,
If bare limbs you like,
If Mae West you like,
Or me undressed you like,
Why, nobody will oppose.
When ev'ry night the set that's smart is in-
Truding in nudist parties in
Studios,
Anything goes.
When Missus Ned McLean (God bless her)
Can get Russian Reds to "yes" her,
Then I suppose
Anything goes.
When Rockefeller still can hoard en-
Nough money to let Max Gordon
Produce his shows,
Anything goes.
The world has gone mad today,
And good's bad today,
And black's white today,
And day's night today,
And that gent today
You gave a cent today
Once had several chateaux.
When folks who still can ride in jitneys
Find out Vanderbilts and Whitneys
Lack baby clo'es,
Anything goes.
If Sam Goldwyn can with great conviction
Instruct Anna Sten in diction,
Then Anna shows
Anything goes.
When you hear that Lady Mendel standing up
Now turns a handspring landing up-
On her toes,
Anything goes.
Just think of those shocks you've got
And those knocks you've got
And those blues you've got
From that news you've got
And those pains you've got
(If any brains you've got)
From those little radios.
So Missus R., with all her trimmin's,
Can broadcast a bed from Simmons
'Cause Franklin knows
Anything goes.
PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE
Tonight there's going to be some fun
Some fun-o!
For Public Enemy Number One
Public Enemy Number One-o!
Our gallant captain has told the staff
The staff-o!
It's time for killing the fatted calf
As he's throwing a party on behalf
Of Public Enemy Number One.
Public Enemy Number One-o!
For since the news has spread
That he prefers to use this company,
The company's stock has gone up so far
That it's now nearly par.
The president of the line has sent
Congratulations too
And to celebrate the big event
He's promised to double the
Wages of the crew. So:
Public Enemy Number One
Thank thee for ev'rything thou hast done.
Blessings on thee, thou noble chap,
For putting this boat of ours on the map.
Thank the heartily, loyal man,
For taking the liner American
For henceforth we'll be crowded on ev'ry run,
Due to thee, Public Enemy Number One.
WHAT A JOY TO BE YOUNG
A girl of sweet sixteen
Believes ev'ry word she hears
When any little boy appears
And plays a love scene.
It would be rather fun
To be sixteen again,
And still have faith in men,
But that's all over now.
I'm twenty-one.
What a joy to be young.
And to b'lieve ev'ry love-song that's sung.
What a blessing to be not so clever,
As to doubt if love can go on forever.
Ev'ry day I am told,
You'll be wiser by far when you're old.
But till away the last sweet dream has been flung,
What a wonderful joy
To be in love and young.
BLOW, GABRIEL, BLOW
Do you hear that playin'?
(Yes, we hear that playin'.)
Do you know who's playin'?
(No, who is that playin'?)
Why it's Gabriel, Gabriel playin'.
Gabriel, Gabriel sayin',
"Will you be ready to go when I blow my horn?"
So blow, Gabriel, blow,
Go on and blow, Gabriel, blow!
I've been a sinner, I've been a scamp,
But now I'm willing to trim my lamp,
So blow, Gabriel, blow!
I was low, Gabriel, low,
Mighty low, Gabriel, low.
But now since I have seen the light,
I'm good by day and I'm good by night,
So blow, Gabriel, blow.
Once I was headed for hell,
But when I got to Satan's door
I heard you blowin' on your horn once more,
So I said, "Satan, farewell!"
And now I'm all ready to fly,
Yes, to fly higher and higher!
"Cause I've gone through the brimstone and I've been through the fire,
And I've purged my soul and my heart too,
So climb up the mountain top and start to
Blow, Gabriel, blow.
Go on and blow, Gabriel, blow!
I want to join your happy band
And play all day in the Promised Land,
So blow, Gabriel, blow!
THE GYPSY IN ME
Long, long ago,
So long ago
I hardly know when,
My great-great-grandmother
Now and then
Stepped out with a gypsy.
I know you will say she was
A little bit tipsy.
But tipsy, no, no.
Of their love their wasn't a doubt,
So I can't wait to get the stage all set
So I can let the gypsy in me out.
Hiding away
There's a little bit of gypsy in me
That's never been found,
Waiting its day,
There's a little bit of gypsy in me
Just hanging around
Till the magicial night
When the stars by their light
Give mystery to the sleeping lagoon.
While a tinkling guitar
Not too near, not too far,
Gaily strums away,
Hums away
A titillating tune.
When I'm there in a dream
With the one in the world I worship passionately,
At the moment supreme
Will be shown the unknown
Gypsy in me.
WUNDERBAR
Gazing down on the Jungfrau
From our secret chalet for two,
Let us drink, Liebchen mein,
In the moonlight benign,
To the joy of our dream come true
Wunderbar, Wunderbar!
What a perfect night for love.
Here am I, there you are,
Why, it’s truly wunderbar!
Wunderbar, Wunderbar!
We’re alone and hand in glove,
Not a cloud near or far,
Why, it’s more than wunderbar!
Say you care, dear,
(For you madly,)
Say you long, dear,
(For your kiss,)
Do you swear, dear?
(Darling, gladly,)
Life’s divine, dear!
(And you’re mine, dear!)
Wunderbar, Wunderbar!
There’s our fav’rite star above.
What a bright, shining star,
Like our love, it’s wunderbar!
SO IN LOVE
Strange, dear, but true, dear,
When I’m close to you dear,
The stars fill the sky,
So in love with you am I.
Even without you
My arms fold about you.
You know, darling, why,
So in love with you am I.
In love with the night mysterious
The night when you first were there,
In love with my joy delirious
When I knew that you could care.
So taunt me and hurt me,
Deceive me, desert me,
I’m yours ‘til I die,
So in love,
So in love,
So in love with you, my love, am I.
I’VE COME TO WIVE IT WEALTHILY IN PADUA
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua,
If wealthily then happily in Padua.
If my wife has a bag of gold,
Do I care if the bag be old?
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua.
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua,
I’ve heard you mutter, “Zounds, a loathsome lad you are.”
I shall not be disturbed one bit
If she be but a quarter-wit,
If she only can talk of clo’es
While she powders her goddamned nose,
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua.
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua,
I’ve heard you say, “Gadzooks, completely mad you are!”
‘Twouldn’t give me the slightest shock
If her knees now and then should knock,
If her eyes were a wee bit crossed,
Were she wearing the hair she’d lost,
Still the damsel I’ll make my dame,
In the dark they are all the same,
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua.
I heard you say, “Good gad, but what a cad you are!”
Do I mind if she fret and fuss,
If she fume like Vesuvius,
If she roar like a winter breeze
On the rough Adriatic seas,
If she screams like a tiger cat,
If she fight like a raging boar,
I have oft struck and pig before,
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua.
With a hunny, nunny, nunny,
And a hey, hey, hey,
Not to mention money, money
For a rainy day,
I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua.
I HATE MEN
I hate men.
I can’t abide ‘em even now and then.
Than ever marry one of them, I’d rest a virgin rather,
For husbands are a boring lot and only give you bother.
Of course, I’m awfly glad that Mother had to marry Father.
But I hate men.
I hate ‘em all, from modern man ‘way back to Father Adam,
He sired Cain and Abel though the Lord above forbade ‘em,
I’d hate both Cain and Abel though Betty Grable had ‘em,
Oh, I hate men!
I hate men.
They should be kept like piggies in a pen,
You may be wooed by Jack the Tar, so charming and so chipper,
But if you take him for a mate, be sure that you’re the skipper,
For Jack the Tar can go too far. Remember Jack the Ripper?
Oh, I hate men.
Of all the types I’ve ever met within our democracy,
I hate the most the athlete, with his manner bold and brassy,
He may have hair upon his chest, but, sister, so has Lassie.
Oh, I hate men!
I hate men.
Their worth upon this earth I dinna ken.
Avoid the trav’ling salesman though a tempting Tom he may be,
From China he will bring you jade and perfume from Araby,
But don’t forget ‘tis he who’ll have the fun and thee the baby,
Oh, I hate men.
If thou shouldst wed a business man, be way, oh, be wary.
He’ll tell you he’s detained in town on business necessary,
His bus’ness is the bus’ness which he gives his secretary,
Oh, I hate men!
I hate men.
Though roosters they, I will not play the hen.
If you espouse an older man through girlish optimism,
He’ll always stay at home at night and make no criticism,
Though you may call it love, the doctors call it rheumatism.
Oh, I hate men.
From all I’ve read, alone in bed, from A to Zed, about ‘em.
Since love is blind, then from the mind, all womankind should rout‘em,
But, ladies, you must answer too, what would we do without ‘em?
Still, I hate men!
WHERE IS THE LIFE THAT LATE I LED?
Since I reached the charming age of puberty
And began to think of feminine curls,
Like a show that’s typically Shuberty
I have always had a multitude of girls,
But now that a married man, at last, am I,
How aware of my dear, departed past am I.
Where is the life that late I led?
Where is it now? Totally dead.
Where is the fun I used to find?
Where has it gone? Gone with the wind.
A married life may all be well,
But raising an heir
Could never compare
With raising a bit of hell,
So I repeat what first I said,
Where is the life that late I?
In dear Milano, where are you, Momo,
Still selling those pictures of the Scriptures in the Duomo?
And, Carolina, where are you, Lina,
Still peddling your pizza in the streets o’ Taormina?
And in Firenze, where are you, Alice,
Still there in your pretty, itty-bitty, Pitti Palace?
And sweet Lucretia, so young and gay-ee?
What scandalous doin’s in the ruins of Pompeii!
Where is the life that late I led?
Where is it now? Totally dead.
Where is the fun I used to find?
Where has it gone? Gone with the wind.
The marriage game is quite all right,
Yes, during the day
It’s easy to play,
But, oh, what a bore at night,
So I repeat what first I said
Where is the life that late I?
Where is Rebecca, my Becki-weckio,
Again is she cruising that amusing Ponte Vecchio?
Where is Fedora, the wild virago?
It’s lucky I missed her gangster sister from Chicago.
Where is Venetia, who loved to chat so,
Could still she be drinkin’ in her stinkin’ pink palazzo?
And lovely Lisa, where are you, Lisa?
You gave a new meaning to the leaning tow’r of Pisa.
Where is the life that late I led?
Where is it now? Totally dead.
Where is the fun I used to find?
Where has it gone? Gone with the wind.
I’ve oft been told of nuptial bliss,
But what do you do,
A quarter to two,
With only a shrew to kiss?
So I repeat what first I said,
Where is the life that late I led?
ALWAYS TRUE TO YOU IN MY FASHION
Oh, Bill,
Why can’t you behave,
Why can’t you behave?
How in hell can you be jealous
When you know, baby, I’m your slave?
I’m just mad for you,
And I’ll always be,
But naturally
If a custom-tailored vet
Asks me out for something wet,
When the vet begins to pet, I cry “Hooray!”
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
I enjoy a tender pass
By the boss of Boston, Mass.,
Though his pass is middle-class and notta Backa Bay.
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
There’s a madman known as Mack
Who is planning to attack,
If his mad attack means a Cadillac, okay!
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion,
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
I’ve been asked to have a meal
By a big tycoon in steel,
If the meal includes a deal, accept I may.
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
I could never curl my lip
To a dazzlin’ diamond clip,
Though the clip meant “let ‘er rip,” I’d not say “Nay!”
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
There’s an oil man known as Tex
Who is keen to give me checks.
And his checks, I fear, means that sex is here to stay.
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
There’s a wealthy Hindu priest
Who’s a wolf, to say the least,
When the priest goes too far east, I also stray.
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
There’s a lush from Portland, Ore.,
Who is rich, but sich a bore,
When the bore falls on the floor, I let him lay
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
Mister Harris, plutocrat,
Wants to give my cheek a pat,
If the Harris pat
Means a Paris hat,
Bebe, Oo-la-la!
Mais, je suis toujours fidele, darlin’, in my fashion,
Oui, je suis toujours fidele, darlin’ in my way.
From Ohio Mister Thorn
Calls me up from night ‘til morn,
Mister Thorn once cornered corn and that ain’t hay.
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
From Milwaukee Mister Fritz
Often moves me to the Ritz,
Mister Fritz is full of Schlitz and full of play.
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
Mister Gable, I mean Clark,
Wants me on his boat to park,
If the Gable boat means a sable coat,
Anchors aweigh!
But I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my fashion
Yes, I’m always true to you, darlin’, in my way.
BRUSH UP YOUR SHAKESPEARE
The girls today in society,
Go for classical poetry,
So to win their hearts one must quote with ease
Aeschylus and Euripides.
One must know Homer and, b’lieve me, Bo.
Sophocles, also Sappho-ho!
Unless you know Shelley and Keats and Pope.
Dainty debbies will call you a dope.
But the poet of them all
Who will start ‘em simply ravin’
Is the poet people call
The bard of Stratford-on-Avon.
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
Just declaim a few lines from “Othella”
And they’ll think you’re a helluva fella.
If your blonde won’t respond when you flatter ‘er
Tell her what Tony told Cleopaterer,
If she fights when her clothes you are mussing,
What are clothes? “Much Ado About Nussing.”
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they’ll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
With the wife of the British embessida
Try a crack out of “Troilus and Cressida,”
If she says she won’t buy it or tike it
Make her tike it, what’s more, “As You Like It.”
If she says your behavior is heinous
Kick her right in the “Coriolanus.”
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they’ll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
If you can’t be a ham and do “Hamlet”
They will not give a damn or a damnlet.
Just recite an occasional sonnet.
And your lap’ll have “Honey” upon it.
When your baby is pleading for pleasure
Let her sample your “Measure For Measure.”
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they’ll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
Better mention “The Merchant Of Venice”
When her sweet pound o’ flesh you would menace.
If her virtue, at first, she defends – well,
Just remind her that “All’s Well That Ends Well.”
And if still she won’t give you a bonus
You know what Venus got from Adonis!
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they’ll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
If your goil is a Washington Heights dream.
Treat the kid to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
If she then wants an all-by-herself night
Let her rest ev’ry ‘leventh or “Twelfth Night.”
If because of your heat she gets huffy
Simply play on and “Lay on, Macduffy!”
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they’ll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
So tonight just recite to your matey,
“Kiss me, Kate. Kiss me, Kate. Kiss me, Katey.”
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they’ll all kowtow.
I AM ASHAMED THAT WOMEN ARE SO SIMPLE
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace,
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
So, wife, hold your temper and meekly put
Your hand ‘neath the sole of your husband’s foot,
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready,
Ready,
May it do him ease.