Image by mariananbu from Pixabay
Bea Beeson knocked upon an office door
And awaited the call from the commander of her corps.
When a stern voice barked ‘Enter’ from within,
Bea squared her shoulders, raised her chin and marched right in.
As her commander paused number-crunching mid-compute,
Bea stomped to a stop, stamped to attention and snapped a salute.
‘Ma’am,’ Bea bellowed, followed by a beaming, broad grin,
For today, being Assignment Day, her future was to begin.
For all her brief being, Bea’s only wish was to be a normal miss,
A stop-and-smell-the-begonias lass living in blessed bliss.
Just a busy Bea loving a life of quiet anonymity,
Yet beloved by all in her large, melliferous community.
But Bea stood out. Bea drew attention. Bea was rare.
All because she had one unique feature: a big derrière;
Indeed, hers was a beefy, behemothic, beetling butt,
For from behind Bea glutei infiniti, not maximi, did jut.
In the classroom, a brooding Bea sat beside her big bum,
Far, far away from the nearest school chum.
Despite blossoming at Spelling, Bea bumbled along,
Always looking backward as her teachers droned on.
In the playground, not a single foe or friend
Dared to see-saw behind Bea at her seated end.
During the school play, Bea stood beneath the apron light,
Yet still her burly backside filled stages left, centre and right.
At ballet lessons, Bea rear-ended with her waggle
And sent the tutued troupe into a bedraggled straggle.
At parties, blind-folded guests bypassed the braying ass
And pinned the tail on a bemuddled Bea’s vast arse.
Bea bedecked in bespoke fashion to bewitch and beguile,
But her horizontal stripes were of a most unbecoming style.
She sought to bedazzle with a head of bejewelled beehive hair,
But her bountiful buttocks wouldn’t even fit in the salon chair.
Upon her chubby cheek did Bea bespot a beauty spot,
But, alas, still to others Bea’s bumper bot did besot.
Rather than befriend her, Bea’s classmates belittled her for fun,
Besmearing her good name with barbarous barbs that stung.
Between bejesuses, bedamns and profanities unrefined
Bea bemoaned the betrayal of her bloody big benign behind.
‘Threat to society, my arse,’ she berated in befretting gloom
As she beat a belligerent fist below a beaming, brimming moon.
Once she left school, she enlisted in the air corps
To be a fighter pilot, to let her being soar.
Yes, she thought, it’s the armed forces for me,
So I can be the best Bea I can possibly be.
The real deal was our Bea,
Not just some whimsical wannabe.
A not-so-lean, mean fighting machine
Ready to protect colony and Queen.
She’d show that non-believing throng
And prove all them nagging naysayers wrong.
For today, when assigned,
She’d be leaving her past behind.
Sweat beaded upon her brow of a beetroot hue,
And her mouth was as dry as a beagle’s bone, too.
As her heart boom-boomed disco beats,
Her head buzzed with future phenomenal feats.
Yet fear beset Bea of her commander not agreeing.
Oh, she bethought, woe betide me being a Bea bereft of true being!
And with bated breath and bouncing booty,
Bea awaited the announcement of her fated duty.
The preoccupied officer looked up from her statistics
And said, ‘Private Beeson. Report to Logistics.’
‘But, ma’am—’ a bemused Bea beseeched.
‘No ifs or buts, Private!’ the commander screeched.
Bummer! bethought a befuddled Bea.
A bloody worker is all I am to be.
Bea flushed. Not a blush. Nor indignation.
Just hives. Upon her cheeks, to her consternation.
As Bea stood to attention and replaced her corps cap,
She cursed Life and Air Force for dealing her a bum rap.
But what was a gal of gargantuan girth to do?
What could she be or do, to get her just due?
Alas, nothing, for being beholden to an officer’s behest,
Meant she’d just have to turn the other cheek and let it rest.
With a salute and a ‘ma’am’, Bea turned towards the door
To begrudgingly exit from the commander of her corps.
But as behoves those less lucky than some,
Upon an unseen object bumped Bea’s Brobdingnagian bum,
And from her titanic tush
Came a whomping whump and whishing whoosh.
A chair crashed.
A sideboard smashed.
And following a ghastly gasp and thundering thud,
The black beret before Bea lay in a flood of blood.
Bea’s knees turned to royal jelly,
And in bewilderment she sank to her bloated belly.
For a fickle fate had befallen our besieged lass,
And her astronomical ass was in deep, deep frass.
As she looked upon the beastly sight before her with dread,
Panic swarmed inside her beleaguered head,
For to Bea’s beggared belief her preposterous posterior
Had bestowed a bloody beheading on an unsuspecting superior.
Surely this was Bea’s rock bottom, her lowest low, but no,
For upon her bedevilled being she had inflicted a mortal blow.
Down her fubsy cheeks did Bea’s blubbering tears flow
As she bewailed her being’s being being but a cameo.
What would historians bethink of Bea’s swansong?
Would Bea be besmirched forever and beyond?
Would Bea bequeath a bloody tale to scare
Beady-eyed bibliophiles into being beware?
Could maybe a belated citation for benevolent fire
Be laid beside a purple heart upon Bea’s burning pyre?
Or could maybe the Holy See see fit to beatify Bea,
Given the martyrdom to misfortune of our not-so-little feebee?
Or was there the slightest chance
Bea could plead mitigating circumstance?
No. Never. For her misbehaviour unwitting
Had been behaviour most unbefitting.
Bea begrieved the unbearable briefness of her being,
Of being betwixt and between being and non-being,
Of being a soon-to-be has-been,
Of being a Bea no longer seen,
Of being never betrothed to a fellow being beau,
Of being a being who never begot a being nor watched it grow,
Of being bereaved before the true Bea was on show;
Well, a being’s being should not be abbreviated so.
In life you get but one shot before you rot,
And Bea had now blown her only lot.
Had Bea been a human being and a Bea being not,
Might she have got another shot?
Above Bea beamed an ethereal beacon of bright white light,
And hope filled her heart that her being would be all right.
But, alas, it was not to be,
For Bea Beeson ceased to bee.
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