Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
    Beneath a streetlight casts a shadow.
He'd hoped to find a sunny, green
        Elysian meadow.

Barely a man, at sweet sixteen
    He's gone where none who love him can follow.
He drank his cup of bitter teen
        In one large swallow.

Where he has gone,—to what demesne,—
    (If we in life are ever rooted),
Is all conjecture very mean,
        And much disputed.  

He's gone, and yet he still is seen
    Suffering love's disdain and panging:
Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
        Is dead weight hanging.

O.O