Well, I propose a toast to the mitosistnWith the mostestnShe's a ghost who can boastnFrom coast to coast in every Hela cellnShe's more cultured than ChanelnCartier or YSLnBut she's tired of being quite so hugenAnd dizzy from the centrifugenShe's quick frozen, colour-fastnHer prison cell is built to lastnnDear Helen LanenDid you know your coffin's final nailnIs bigger than a blue whale?nAnd so it will remainnJust as long as cell biologistsnLike peering at your private bitsnnIt's a grand humiliationnShowing now across the nationnMutation on a huge scalenBigger than a blue whalennDear Helen LanenDid you know the bit you left behindnMay help to cure its own kind?nSo maybe you can claimnA saintly little perch in every churchnFor contributions to researchnnWell back in 1953, m'lady had a maladynA cervix abnormalitynThat led to her fatalitynThe cells went for a biopsynThat showed up the malignancynBut also a propensitynTo multiply so rapidlynThat the scientists went on to seenWhat other uses there could benFor her expansive qualitynThey shared her around extensivelynTo every good laboratorynHer fame was spreading globallyn'Til nowadays she's said to benThe biggest lonely clone there'll ever bennArabidopsis and drosophilanMay have advice to offer hernOn how it's best to keep your coolnWhen you've become a research toolnnDear Helen LanenDid you know your flock of little vulturesnDivide and conquer lesser cultures?nBut not that you're to blamenYour name beforenThey diddled with the factsnWas really Henrietta LacksnnDear Helen LanenDid you know that part you left to sciencenIs now a giant among giants?nAnd on a higher planenYour omnipresent questionnBids the answernGod's a black woman's cancer