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