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In an old house in Paris, covered in vines |
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Lived a girl by the name of Madeline |
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She was not afraid of spiders or mice |
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Madeline loved winter, snow and ice |
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She watched from her window, onto the street below |
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The soldiers and the ladies stopped to say hello |
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They asked for her pleasure, be it whiskey or plain |
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But there's no need for drink to take away that kind of pain |
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And in the middle of the night, Madeline would reach for her bedside light |
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Saying something is not right. |
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And wearing a face as pale as ash |
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She'd sit and watch the raindrops fall and splash |
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Then she would turn to rest once more |
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And like all good children watch no more |
