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Cole Mining

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"YOU'RE THE TOP," Cole Porter's list of the best things in life, is itself among the best things in life, a 1934 song that doubles as an inventory of earthly treasures. "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...." Yet the lyrics barely mention sports, an oversight humbly corrected with these supplemental verses. In the key of C, please:

You're the top! You're the UConn women.

You're Coach Pop; you're that Phelps guy swimmin'.

You're Scully's voice on a fielder's choice in May.

You're Beyoncé's twins, Bill Cowher's chin; you're Dr. J.

You're the top of the tallest steeple.

You're the cop in the Village People.

I'm a hopeless clown, a Cleveland Brown, full stop.

But if, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top!

You're the top! You're the great Steph Curry, Jürgen Klopp or the late Jim Murray.

You're Yogi Berra; you're Mo Rivera in stripes.

You're Messi's feet, Jim Harbaugh's pleats, Sinatra's pipes.

You're the Seine; you're the works of Dante.

You're the N in N'Golo Kanté.

I'm that guy who tweets from courtside seats nonstop.

But if, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top!

You're a ring; you're a bust in Canton.

You're the swing of Giancarlo Stanton.

You're a Brady toss to Randy Moss back when.

You're Apple stock; you're J.S. Bach; you're Edelman.

You're a god; you're Craig Sager's closet.

You're A-Rod with direct deposit.

I'm a manuscript rejected by Knopf.

But if, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the topf!

You're the bomb; you're a Meat Loaf ballad.

You're DeGrom, but with better salad.

You're the Say Hey Kid, his Giants lid in flight.

You're Lady Byng; you're spicy wings; you're Arlo White.

You're the Chief; you're the Boston Garden, Mick and Keef, or the beard of Harden.

I'm a pack of Topps that's chockablock with flops;

But if, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top!

You're a king: hockey's Frank Zamboni;

Larry King paying alimony.

You're a shirtless J.R. Smith or Iggy Pop.

You're Jordan's hops; you're Mozart's chops; you're a Divac flop.

You're the GOAT, aka Serena.

You're a float out in Pasadena.

I'm a routine fly some lazy guy lets drop.

But if, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top!

You're the stud, winning athletes freedom.

You're Curt Flood suing Dewey Cheatham.

You're Maddon's Cubs when trying not to suck.

You're a Gretzky-used, Ovechkin-bruised, Fox-glowing puck.

You're divine; you're the Chartres cathedral.

You're the spine of the brave Knievel.

I'm the dope who gets a Brooklyn Nets tattoo;

But if, baby, I'm the sidewalk, you're the shoe.

You're the Rock; you're a famous Dalí

Melting clock; you're Muhammad Ali.

You're half LeBron, half Delle Donne at hoops.

You're high-top Chucks; you're "Potvin Sucks!"; you're alley-oops.

You're a prize—you're Roger Federer;

Curly fries, etcetera, etceterer.

You're Raging Bull, I'm Kindergarten Cop;

Because, baby, I'm the bottom, you're the top!

Cole Porter's "You're the Top" is a 1934 inventory of earthly treasures. But the lyrics barely mention sports, an oversight humbly corrected with these verses.

Have a verse of your own you'd like to add?

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