• Rest in peace Peter Sarstedt (1941-2017)

    Thank you for the music and especially for one of the very best pop songs of the sixties with truly meaningful lyrics that shall be honored and never forgotten!

    You talk like Marlene Dietrich 

    And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire 

    Your clothes are all made by Balmain 

    And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are 

     

    You live in a fancy apartment 

    Off the Boulevard Saint-Michel 

    Where you keep your Rolling Stones records 

    And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do 

     

    But where do you go to my lovely 

    When you're alone in your bed 

    Tell me the thoughts that surround you 

    I want to look inside your head, yes I do 

     

    I've seen all your qualifications 

    You got from the Sorbonne 

    And the painting you stole from Picasso 

    Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does 

     

    When you go on your summer vacation 

    You go to Juan-les-Pins 

    With your carefully designed topless swimsuit 

    You get an even suntan on your back and on your legs 

     

    And when the snow falls you're found in Saint Moritz 

    With the others of the jet-set 

    And you sip your Napoleon brandy 

    But you never get your lips wet, no you don't 

     

    But where do you go to my lovely 

    When you're alone in your bed 

    Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you 

    I want to look inside your head, yes I do 

     

    Your name, it is heard in high places 

    You know the Aga Khan 

    He sent you a racehorse for Christmas 

    And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh a-ha-ha-ha 

     

    They say that when you get married 

    It'll be to a millionaire 

    But they don't realize where you came from 

    And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn 

     

    Where do you go to my lovely 

    When you're alone in your bed 

    Tell me the thoughts that surround you 

    I want to look inside your head, yes I do 

     

    I remember the back streets of Naples 

    Two children begging in rags 

    Both touched with a burning ambition 

    To shake off their lowly-born tags, so they try 

     

    So look into my face Marie-Claire 

    And remember just who you are 

    Then go and forget me forever 

    But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside, yes you do 

     

    I know where you go to my lovely 

    When you're alone in your bed 

    I know the thoughts that surround you 

    'Cause I can look inside your head 

     

    And here's the sequel from 1997: ''The Last of the Breed (Lovely 2)''

    On golden sandals you walk marble terraces

    In Cape Town and Rio de Janeiro

    In the company of people with money and looks

    A most studied and glittering scenario

     

    Great names in politics and charity adore you

    In ballrooms with diamonds and dancing

    Laughing but serious, poise and certainty

    Every move made career, enhancing

     

    A major player in the world of Haute Couture

    At the salons of Paris and Milano

    Somehow you've delayed the ageing process

    Looking stunning in John Galliano

     

    You keep your secrets inside Marie-Claire

    What right have the paparazzi to pry?

    No-one's interested in knowing the truth

    But they'll always believe in a lie

     

    So, act out the destiny

    Play out the role

    Follow the romantic creed

    You are the last of the breed

     

    Years spent in agony at the Ballet de Rousse

    Too tall for a Prima Ballerina

    A figure so graceful in a non-classical sense

    Would have delighted Nureyev, had he seen her

     

    Face slightly imperfect, a mirror underwater

    Isabella Rossellini from a distance

    Eyes evanescent, lapis flecked with gold

    As though from the very roots of existence

     

    You keep your secrets inside Marie-Claire

    What right have the paparazzi to pry?

    No-one's interested in knowing the truth

    But they'll always believe in a lie

     

    So, act out the destiny

    Play out the role

    Follow the romantic creed

    You are the last of the breed

     

    Those times with the famous, in Palm Beach and Long Island

    The winters in Gstaad and Colorado

    They were whimsical seasons, impossibly shallow

    Hostage to a ridiculous bravado

     

    Time came to leave and return to Europe

    Promising there would be no more marriages

    And, while Harrods refurbished the Belgravia mansion

    You moved to the penthouse at Claridge's

     

    You keep your secrets inside Marie-Claire

    What right have the paparazzi to pry?

    No-one's interested in knowing the truth

    But they'll always believe in a lie

     

    So, act out the destiny

    Play out the role

    Follow the romantic creed

    You are the last of the breed

     

    And there he stood, as sad as Jerusalem

    Stone-eyed and gaunt in the silence

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