The Little Fellow peered up at his father as The Clever One was presenting.

“Fellows!” The Celver One boomed. “We have translated a human poem from its original lexicon. The humans, unlike the grey ones, have thousands upon thousands of languages, but this one came from English, one of the most common.”

There were murmurs among the crowd of researchers.

“What is its name?” One of the humanologists asked.

“Its name is…” The Clever One looked perplexed.

“‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, and it is from ancient Earth history; the year one thousand, nine hundred and seventy-five, in fact.”

The lab, including The Little Fellow’s father, gasped.

“Earth has been around for millions of years!” Someone observed. “This is indeed very old!”

“Whomst is the poet?” Someone else asked.

“This papyrus simply says it is by someone named ‘Queen’,” said The Clever One.

“Do human rulers express their joy for their people by writing poems?” The Little Fellow’s father asked.

“Perhaps,” replied The Clever One. “But there is evidence to suggest that perhaps this ‘Queen’ fellow may actually be a group of humans from a colony they call Britain.”

“What evidence?” asked a researcher who sounded very skeptical.

“Strange discs of sound,” The Clever One announced. “where humans add sound to their poems to make them more enjoyable. That, and a leaflet of paper from the same year as the poem, which we have also translated. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is considered long by human standards.”

There was more discussion within the group, when one of the researchers raised their hand.

“Excuse me,” she called, “But may we hear what the poem reads?”

“Of course,” said The Clever One. “This poem is a tale of an impoverished young man who relives his tale of murder to his mother.”

The researchers screamed.

“Clever One!” One of them shouted. “Are humans murderous beings who want us to know of their atrocities?”

The Clever One went orange.

“We-we d-d-do not have enough evidence to answer that quer-query,” he replied, stammering.

“He doesnt know!” one of the researchers screamed. “We’re translating these human writings when we do not know of their true nature!”

The researchers began to riot. They were demanding answers, standing on tables, trying to pry the poem that started it all out of The Clever One’s hands.

The Little Fellow hid behind his father and stayed silent. As the lab became less and less stable, he thought about humans and the chaos, he felt a sort of discomfort in his stomach.

His father noticed the boy and spoke.

“Let us leave,” his father said. “Is that alright?”

The Little Fellow nodded and followed his father.

As the two were walking, The Little Fellow asked a question.

“Papa, are humans dangerous?” He asked with wide eyes.

His father cocked his head to the side and replied, “There is a lot about humans that we do not know. Maybe they really do take pleasure in taking the lives of others, but they could very easily be a wonderful species as well. We may never know.”

“I’m scared of it, Papa,” whined the young boy. “Of that poet from the colony called Britain.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” the older alien assured his son. “After all, it _is_ ancient history.