Chorus 1: Is it an earthquake, or simply a shock?
Is it the good turtle soup, or merely the mock?
Is it a cocktail, this feeling of joy?
Or is what I feel the real McCoy?
Is it for all time, or simply a lark?
Is it Granada I see or only Asbury Park?
Is it a fancy not worth thinking of?
Or is it at long last love?
Chorus 2: Is it in marble, or is it in clay?
Is what I thought a new Rolls a used Chevrolet?
What can account for these strange pitter pats?
Could this be the dream, the cream, the cats?
Have I the right hunch, or have I the wrong?
Will it be Bach that I hear, or just a Cole Porter song?
Is it the gay gods, cavorting above?
Or is it at long last love?