Jenny Genius woke up wondering how far outer space went,
So first, she studied astrophysics and related sciences;
Then took advantage of the workshop in her father's basement
To build a simple rocket ship from parts of used appliances.

An antique copper funnel, borrowed from a moonshine still,
Became the perfect nose cone, bound in place with baling wire,
Atop a silver lampshade welded to an outdoor grill,
Above a water-heater tank and combo washer-dryer.

The dryer door served both as window and main access hatch
Into the rocket cockpit, at whose heart she had installed
A riding mower bucket seat, with safety belt to match,
Plus start and stop and steering sticks—whatever those are called.

Old windmill blades were fashioned into stabilizing fins
Around the rocket's base. Spare shower heads directed thrust.
Parts better fit for junkyards or—at best—recycling bins;
None suitable for rocketry; most better left to rust.

But such was Jenny's genius, such her insights into Nature,
That even quantum forces bowed to her and acted tame—
Some forces undiscovered, whose official nomenclature
Should, by scholarly tradition, now incorporate her name.

Outwardly, her ship appeared precarious, unsturdy,
Less than airtight—something oft required in outer space.
On a scale of lethal risk from one to ten, it was a thirty
Before factoring in her genius—as is fitting in this case.

Closer scrutiny of the rocket's hidden elements would cast
In truer light that praise and Nobel Prizes were in order:
Her warp-field generator, for example, was surpassed
Only slightly by her antimatter-powered teleporter.

Her fission-fusion forge was futuristic for a fact,
Though its vacuum-cleaner chassis was deceiving,
And her molecule mutator held her rocket ship intact,
Without which there'd have been no point in leaving.

Thanks to relativity, we would have to wait, by golly,
Many millennia to learn if Jenny made it,
If not for the subspace savvy of her positronic dolly,
Who keeps their rocket travel blog updated.

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