In a chateau in LA where the sun always shines
Exit twelve little girls in two straight lines.
Inside a stretch limousine, ready to mingle
Invited to sing some Christmas-time jingles.

In two straight lines, in rain or shine
The smallest one was Madeline

Madeline wasn’t enjoying the night
Still anxious from the airplane flight.
Out of the elevator sauntered out Hans
With a group of blond Germans wanting US bonds.

As the gunshots clamored and bullet shells rain
Tagaki takes Hans, in fear of pain.
Madeline followed, “Hmm, what is the matter?”
BAM! In his office, Tagaki’s brains splatter.

“You may be petite, but you are brave too.”
She said to herself from floor thirty-two.
She quietly hid, none of them saw her
As she wrote their names down with a red Sharpie marker.

In the air vent, she pulls out a light,
“Come to LA for Christmas Eve night,”
Said Madeline, mocking dear Ms. Clavel,
“I’m too young to be trapped in this bourgeois hell.”

On her walkie-talkie set to channel nine
Madeline yells, “Help, it’s a Christmas Eve crime!”
“I’m here to help.” “Dieu merci who are you, sir?”
“I am Reginald VelJohnson, police officer.”

The girls hold onto Clavel, shaking in fright.
They all pray that Madeline will be all right.
The gunmen come back, angered and addled
Ms. Clavel smiles, “They’re losing the battle.”

“How do you know?” asked a woman in plaid.
“Only my Petite can make someone that mad.”

Later that night, the men had her cornered.
“Grab the C4 bag!” they were ordered.
Madeline was quick, the men unaware
The girl kicked a lit C4 at them with a chair.


Madeline went to the roof and found her girls in yellow.
But Ms. Clavel was taken by that nasty fellow.
With a hose tied to her waist, she dropped below
Swinging herself through a glass-paned window.

She stops in her tracks when Hans yells, “Halt!”
Ms. Clavel held hostage in the vault.
You’re Ms. Clavel’s girl? You’re younger than nine.
“My name,” says the brave girl, “is Madeline.”

With a smile on her face and quick on her heels,
Madeline kicks Hans with her famous cartwheels.
He falls out the window, Hans Gruber is dead…

… “Merry Christmas my Petite. Time for bed.”