Jessica Jean

We planted some beans in our garden in class,
along with some peppers and pumpkins1 and grass.
We planted them neatly2 in straight little rows.
But Jessica Jean stuck her bean up her nose.
She did it discreetly3, not making a peep.
She pushed with her pinky and poked4 it in deep,
then kept it a secret, so no one would know.
But, meanwhile, her bean was beginning to grow.
It popped out a leaf on the tiniest stalk,
that quickly unfolded and caused her to squawk,
then rapidly blossommed and grew to a vine,
while Jessica Jean was beginning to whine5.
It quickly expanded to cover her lips.
It grew on her shoulders, her elbows and hips6.
It bloomed on her body and covered her clothes,
completely encasing her down to her toes.
It looped on her ankles, engulfing7 her feet,
cocooning8 her knees and obscuring her seat,
concealing9 her up past the top of her chest,
her arms and her hands, and then all of the rest.
And that was the last that has ever been seen,
or heard of the student named Jessica Jean.
So always remember to plant them in rows,
and never, don't ever, put beans in your nose.