I write about a long dead artist, whose works and woes and long to list
He's been dead a long 200 years, but there's more I have to say
He was a genius, surely you all agree, his works are wonders and a joy to see
And if we could only, only all write this certain way
If only we could all be enlightened to this certain artist's way
I'd like to wish him a happy 'day.

They speculate his life was over in a dark and dismal October
His body was found, frozen, where on the streets he lay
He overdosed from alcohol- his lethal habit had taken its toll
How we all wish he hadn't died so pointlessly- pointlessly on the bleak, unforgettable day
For many great works would've been made if he didn't die that day
If only his life would stay

But think about the good-not the strife, all the things that sprouted from his life
Good works, still read, that forever with us shall stay
Even though he is with us no more, his works provide unchallenged lore
His mind was home to a relentless never ending fray
Death of his wife had left within him a never ending fray
And now buried deep his mind lay

His tragedy though sad, which began I'd think as a young lad
Perhaps was somewhat a good thing, in a literary way
His sadness and his dreary caused a passion almost fiery
His woes ultimately were the price he had to pay
For his great works- the price he had to pay
There's nothing more of this to say

Any reader would compliment, on how his works do relent
Emitting, emerging every word to life that he does convey
Even deep below his grave, you can hear the artist rave
And I've only these two words for him today
These two words, which I wish he'll always keep, I have for him today
Only this, “Happy Birthday.”