My story is much too 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 parfume from Spain
I'm sure that if I took even one sniff
That would bore me terrifically too
Yet I get a kick out of you

I get a kick every time I see
You're standing there before me
I get a kick though it's clear to see
You obviously don't adore me

I get no kick in a plane
Flying too high with some guy in the sky
Is my idea of nothing to do
Yet I get a kick out of you