The Death of Chatterton, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Poor fatherless genius age eleven
Wrote great versus without imperfection
His skill would not pave his way to Heaven
Shortly going in other direction

Verses he wrote penned by long ago monk
Thomas Rowley lived three centuries past
Claimed to have discovered them in a trunk
Willing to sell them if the sum were vast

Not selling his writings turns to despair
Yet wrote feverishly both day and night
Did not have a shilling that he could spare
Now totally consumed by darkened fright

To rid the pain arsenic he did down
Shy of eighteen he lies in the cold ground