[His talents lay...]
But, no parvenu nor nouveau riche,
He found patrons would spare no
Cash for his Inferno—
He never reached heaven, capisce?
This is not a form that I have the wit for—a friend had something up that relied on a complicated setup to get you a pun in the last line about "Putting his Horace before Descartes" or something like that. Because the preceding four lines were clunky, I tried reworking them, but made no headway in the exercise. Finally I gave up and popped this out. "It is what it is" may be the best to be said about it.
A new poem is always news to the poet.