Lyrics: Henry Biggs
Music: Henry Biggs and Mylene Farmer

All alone in a park on a bench in the dark 
gone to the wind to the rain not a spark 
of life flickers from these eyes, these eyes 
memories of innocence caked and pasted with lies 
nothing brings me back to innocence any more 
except you my little whore vacant and worn 
in you she comes back and I'm safe and warm 
tasting you I'm back again 
dipped in sin, sweet Madeleine

Madeleine (Turn me on) (repeat)

Madeleine to lick your skin 
is to take a trip to way back when 
to love-to love 
the stuff that dreams of love are made of 
to her, to a smile, to stare, a caress 
to a future hoped for, hoped for yes 
and in you she's before me in you sultry silky 
in you lips run o'er me in you soft and milky 
tasting you I'm back again dipped in sin, 
sweet Madeleine


Madeleine it never lasts 
the present past is passing fast 
staring desperately at the peeling ceiling 
I try to guard that fleeting feeling 
but it fades and jades and withering blooms 
eroding back to this festering room 
over, done, I pay, I go 
and wander back down through the streets below 
aimlessly back to a bench in a park 
I plant myself alone in the dark 
but tasting you, I'll be back again sweet Madeleine

The Idea. . .

...She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,' 
which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. 
And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, 
I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. 
No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, 
touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, 
intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. 
An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, 
but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. 
And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indiferent to me, 
its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory-this new sensation 
having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; 
or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel medioucre, 
accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy?

Proust, Swann's Way 
trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff, The Modern Library, New York.P. 62

In this excerpt Proust describes the ability of the taste of a cookie, a madeleine, to invoke
involuntary memory. Headmess draws on Proust's "episode of the madeleine" and describes
the subject's return to a girl he once loved through his experience with a prostitute named
Madeleine. Madeleine charges his memories of a happier time--of a good relationship
he had in the past. Just as Proust's madeleine is dipped in tea, Headmess's Madeleine is "dipped in sin."

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