The wolves! The wolves! Of poor Tingsdale,
O could there be a sadder tale?
The town for which I wrote this verse,
Fell victim to an ancient curse.
A foreigner came, was welcomed in,
He seemed so kind, if slightly thin.
And when, quite soon, full moon came round,
The stranger could nowhere be found.
Months went by without a trace,
They soon forgot the strangers face.
And when the wolves began to raid,
The villagers then were sore afraid.
Leo came! Our rambunctious friend,
And to the villagers a hand did lend.
With his crew and with great fun,
He slew them all with witty puns.
Back to the inn to celebrate,
But — how cruel! — they were too late.
For blood and bodies strew the floor,
And the Silver Horn above the door,
Lay stuck in Jeff’s now-human chest,
Who had turned wolf, Leo guessed.
And with the wolves of Tingsdale gone
Leo left and wrote this song.