where do you go to my lovely

you talk like marlene dietrich and you dance like zizi jean-maire.

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 st. michel

where you keep your rolling stones records

and a friend of sasha 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 st. 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 is heard in high places. you know the agha khan.

he sent you a race horse for christmas

and you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, aha-ha.

they say that when you get married, it will 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.

ah, 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.

ah, 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.

peter sarstedt