You believe that the whole world depends on my telephone,
that I am continually asked out by a god, by a man.
You're afraid I might say to you: "Sorry, my evening is taken"—
and that you might interrupt me in the middle of a singing exercise.
You see me as a star but I am only a woman.
You know sometimes that glory has made my soul blue.
I want to listen to other words than those written in newspapers.
Dial my number and throw yourself into the mix.
Phone me, call me.
I'm waiting only for a call—I need to hear a voice.
Phone me—in my calendar,
I have time for me—phone me.
I am not some fierce beast who paws and then leaves.
I won't give you a love overdose if you make the first move.
You believe me to be happy and quiet, but I'm alone on my island.
Without you, my entire life hangs by a thread.
Phone me, call me.
I'm waiting only for a call—I need to hear a voice.
Phone me—in my calendar,
I have time for me—phone me.
The evening of December 31st in the Valley of the Dolls,
she was alone in her room—no one called her.
She was the most beautiful girl in the world—she was rich, she was blond.
Yet at the last stroke of midnight, it was farewell to life.
Phone me, call me.
These are not stories until it is too late.
Phone me—the pills of hope
I take me every night—phone me.