In a quiet, humble village lane
lived Ruprecht, a boy of nine, untame.
A wild young lad, defiant, bold,
he'd cast all warnings to the cold.
His father spoke with a serious tone:
"My son, leave pipes and cigars alone!
For fire is no harmless play,
it brings no joy, just pain and dismay—
much grief and sorrow to our door.
So cast such reckless thoughts no more!"
But Ruprecht smirked and thought it fine,
"What harm could come from smoke so fine?"
And so one day, with stealthy grace,
he stole a cigar from its resting place.
His faithful dog, named Fidel true,
saw and whined, as if he knew.
He tugged at trousers, gave a cry,
but Ruprecht waved his care goodbye.
Behind the shed, where dry wood lay,
Ruprecht lit the smoke that day—
with trembling hand and puffed-up pride,
he drew the smoke in deep and wide.
But scarcely had it touched his throat,
he coughed, he gasped, he lost all note.
His chest grew tight, his face turned red,
the boy fell down, in panic and dread.
The glowing tip dropped to the floor,
and found the dry wood near the door.
A spark, a hiss, then flames arose—
and circled Ruprecht as fire grows.
Fidel barked, he screamed, he leapt,
but soon the blaze had wildly crept.
And when the parents rushed in fright,
they found but ash and scorched remains that night.