Just step in Madonna, Madonnas.
And get in Madonna, Madonnas.
All the patient horses are waiting,
with their hoofs above ground they are hanging.
And the carriages are restless,
everyone is painted matching all the horses,
looking like the colors of the ceiling,
of the oak tree, of a carrot.
A stir from Madonnas,
a stampede of hundreds
bolting off their hoofs.
Circling in fire in their roped-in cages,
once they were of games
and throughout every dancehall
with a will of vigor, burning flowers.
And in each carriage arm and arm,
Madonna and Madonna.
From childhood bent up,
she is stuck inside an unchanging time.
White horses carriage,
black horses carriage,
red horses carriage,
magnificent!
Just as a gift for the
complicated eras that are too sad,
everyday on Sundays
working for the midnight holy masses.
And in each carriage arm and arm,
Madonna and Madonna.
And no one knows which is asleep
and which one is inspired.
White horses carriage, black horses carriage,
red horses carriage, magnificent!