My story is much to sad to be told

But practically everything 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 like the perfume from Spain

I'm sure that if I took even one whiff

That would bore me terrifically too

Yet I get a kick out of you.

I get a kick every time I see

You 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 gal in the sky

Is my idea of nothing to do

Yet I get a kick

Out of you