Jeremy was an artist, the best of his day
He started as a boy, he liked to draw rather than play
He was famous back then, known all through the land
As the little boy from Norfolk, with the steadiest hand

Peculiar he was, for he never spoke a word
His parents told the public, "through his work he liked to be heard"
Those who watched him recall, his face was clear and gleaned
But his eyes shone dark with pain, suffering so it seemed

His art may shine bright, bring light to dark times
But it's not his true passion, rather his crux to draw lines
He has to do it anyway, from his family it keeps dread
Or rather because his parents, hold a gun against his head