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