In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, A lad named William dwelt, a shepherd keen. Within the meadows green, he kept his flock, Yet mischief brewed within his wily stock.

With jests and tales, young William played his part, Devising falsehoods, weaving them with art. He sought attention, craving village eyes, Spinning tales of wolves with crafty lies.

"Alas! A wolf approaches swift and sly, Beware, good folk, or doom will soon draw nigh!" The villagers, alarmed, rushed to his aid, Only to find the jest the boy had made.

The suns arose, the moons did wax and wane, Yet still, young William played the selfsame game. With each false alarm, trust waned away, Till truth and falsehood blurred in shades of gray.

And when a real wolf neared with hunger wild, The boy cried out, yet no one heed him, styled. For in the labyrinth of lies he'd sown, No ear remained to hear the true wolf's moan.

Thus, in the end, the lesson sternly taught, Deceit begets a fate with ruin fraught. The boy who cried wolf, his voice unheard, Paid the price for tales, false and absurd.