Young Maxwell Malone, with his brand new trombone,
Was on his way home, he was walking alone.
When suddenly ahead, on the path, in his way,
Stood a little green man in a bright pink beret.

The little green man wore little green pants,
And as Maxwell approached the man started to dance.
The shirt the man wore was as black as a crow,
But as the man danced the shirt started to glow.

The glow, it increased, it grew like a weed,
Young Maxwell Malone was frightened indeed.
But he took his trombone and he cleared out his throat,
Then he threw his head back and he blew out a note.

Such a sonorous tone, so clear and so true,
That the little green man wasn’t sure what to do.
So he just kept on dancing, and he started to spin,
And out from the shirt stepped his identical twin.

Now there were two and they danced as if one,
But Maxwell Malone wasn’t nearly quite done.
Max played and he wailed and he rocked and he rolled,
With each note he blew he grew more and more bold.

But the little green men in the little green pants,
Ignored the trombone and continued to dance.
Soon there were four, then eight, then sixteen,
An army of men all tiny and green.

Young Maxwell Malone remained resolute,
As his brand new trombone continued to toot.
Thirty-two, sixty-four, now one twenty-eight,
The green men produced at a neck-breaking rate.

Max played jazz, then classical, then swing,
Both country and western, which wasn’t his thing.
He spun through the genres but nothing would work,
Max threw down the horn, he felt like a jerk.

The little green men were now two fifty-six,
They made a river of green with a black and pink mix.
Max backed away, leaving his horn,
Should he fight? Should he run? Young Maxwell felt torn.

Then the little green men, in the little green pants,
Fell into a stillness as they finished their dance.
“Why did you stop?” they asked in once voice,
“Your tunes were the bomb, they were really quite choice.”

“You’re blocking my path, I just want to go home,”
Said Maxwell Malone, as he retrieved his trombone.
“We just want to dance,” said the little green men,
“Would you please just play us a song once again?”

“If I do,” said Max. “Can I be on my way?”
“Oh yes,” they all said. “As long as you play.”
And so Maxwell played, and note after note,
The green men all danced to the song that he wrote.

But as the men danced half began to deflate,
The two fifty-six were now one twenty-eight.
Then sixty-four, thirty-two, now sixteen,
They danced and they vanished these men who were green.

Sixteen became eight, the eight became four,
And soon there were two, and not a man more.
By the time Max had finished, all that stood in his way,
Was a little green man with a bright pink beret.

The little green man in his little green pants,
Gave Maxwell a bow and said “Thanks for the dance.”
Then the man vanished, leaving Max all alone,
Young Maxwell Malone, and his brand new trombone.


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