Remember back in 6th Form (for those of you who went to school when there was a 6th Form) when you had to do poetry? Without exception, people took one of two approaches: either copy out some song lyrics and hope that your English teacher wasn't cool enough to recognise them, or churn out the most god awful teen angst shite your hormone-addled brain was capable of exuding. (Because at the age of sixteen, poetry was god awful teen angst shite as far as you were aware. My impression has yet to change.)
Even at the time I recall being faintly horrified at reading the efforts chosen for inclusion in the yearbook -- here were a bunch of people who I knew to be happy, upbeat individuals writing death and gloom and blackness as though they were war orphans with terminal cancer who drank black nail polish and eyeliner. Myself included. While I can't bring myself to reproduce the linguistic discharge I smeared onto the pages of our school publication (and I'd point out to those who may have a copy of said yearbook themselves that I can delete comments without a trace), I will admit to employing Teen Angst Staple #29: Repeating the same line in several different languages 'cause it's exo'ic.
My point is that I can claim extenuating circumstances: I was a gangly teenager with no more experience of the world than your average mayfly and therefore incapable of projecting anything resembling actual significance or profundity. Madonna, on the other hand, is in her mid 40s and has experienced more than most of us will fit into five lifetimes, most of it on camera.
So what's her fucking excuse for this?