Some have said Jan has dung for brains
How rude are those who place disdains
on her poems in the soup
Their words are full of poop
Jan sits upon her throne and reigns
From porcelain commode she rules
Toilet paper and pen, her tools
She takes a morning dump
from a crack in her rump
One day she found dark colored stools
Her doctor arranged for a scan
So, off to the UK, flew Jan
From her brain to her feet
First an enema... Fleet
That kept Jan sitting on the can
Days later, she read the results
With mirth and laughter, Jan exults
She'd eaten licorice
Rumors were gibberish
Fools, were those rumoring insults
Jan's brain scan proved that she's alright
If her poems offend the 'uptight'
She just couldn't care less
If it brings them distress
Because she doesn't give a s.h.i.t.e
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