My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically everything leaves me totally cold.
The 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, they may go for cocaine.
I’m sure that if I took even one sniff
It 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 see
You obviously do not 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 – um you give me a boot – I get a kick out of you.