You drove me, nearly drove me, out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember, all that you said
You told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me and
Now you say you love me
Well, just to prove that you do
Come on and cry me a river
Cry me a river
I cried a river over you
There it is. One of my favorite moments in all of song lyrics: the rhyming of plebeian and me and. Arthur Hamilton, you are a genius! I bow in obeisance to a master of songbusiness.
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5 comments:
Dylan has a similar sort of rhyme:
The clouds are turnin' crimson
The leaves fall from the limbs an'
The branches cast their shadows over stone
Won't you meet me out in the moonlight alone?
I love love love this song! Love to sing it, love to hear other people sing it. And yes, that rhyme. It taught me the meaning of the word plebian. What more can you ask of a song?
It does take talent to employ the word "plebian" in a love song.
Great rhymes are an unmitigated delight. I think Cole Porter was probably the master of them. One of my favorites:
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
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'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 the steppes of Russia,
You're the pants on a Roxy usher.
I'm a toy balloon that is fated soon to pop
But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!
D: I haven't heard that CD.
S: Me too.
H: Agreed.
SY: Porter is rather godlike to me.
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