This poem was composed as a collective where each student was allowed to write a single sentence. The ManBearPig and daffofil topics came up during the symposia session when experiments on molecular chemistry (with specific reference to things like DNA) were performed.
Grasping the flower gently,
He is ½ man, ½ bear, ½ pig, with flowers, from Imagination Land!
Walking down the isle with a beautiful white dress flowing behind her, the Manbearpig carries a large bouquet of daffodils.
Manbearpig lives in a cruel world of injustice.
Hairy, muddy, humany. That’s Manbearpig.
Being a Manbearpig is very very COOL with daffodils.
As I walked along the road, I picked up a daffodil and put it on my head.
A Manbearpig will huddle and cuddle a daffodil and eat it.
I am Manbearpig, I have found a flower, it is a daffodil. Tonight I will sit next to it watching the sunset, while eating cow brains with some nice salsa. Also, I will consider eating Kyle.
Gripping the flower with such force,
Causes the yellow ray of sun to wilt.
The kind Manbearpig sits next to the beautiful daffodil on a pleasant spring day.
He races through the daffodils inhaling deeply as he goes.
Limping on one foot, the confused but beautiful Manbearpig hopped through the field of daffodils wearing red high heels and white, silky cocktail dress.
He does a somersault.
The dangerous Manbearpig stares at a daffodil on a warm summer morning.
The daffodil, yellow, fluorescent, bright, beautiful, calming, graceful, blowing.
I am a lonely daffodil last of my kind, accompanied by a beautiful beast the Manbearpig, the only of his kind.
A Manbearpig lives and eats weird things.
He slips and he trips and he slides down the slope and gets up with the daffodil sticking out of his nose.
The graceful Manbearpig trots through the fields of cruelty to the daffodil of Al Gore.
He walks through the fast melting snow, finding flowers, but none like his own.
The lonely Manbearpig walked through a field of paradise with his fancy designer dress and emerald green heels, picking lovely daffodils, but he is sad and ungrateful for he has all the materials he needs but he has no one to care for him or for him to lean on.
The Manbearpig is fat like a hippo.
He runs through the garden as a daffodil lands on its head.
Angles in their long cream robes floating gently past a single golden daffodil blowing in the cool breeze headed toward the Manbearpig’s arrival.
The Manbearpig is walking through the forest picking up daffodils, skipping freely.