Учебный проект Правильные многогранники в искусстве
(→Самостоятельные исследования учащихся в рамках учебного проекта) |
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| (не показаны 47 промежуточных версий 2 участников) | |||
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| − | + | you presents, won't we, fenians? And it isn't our spittle we'll stint | |
| − | + | you of, is it, druids? Not shabbty little imagettes, pennydirts and | |
| − | + | dodgemyeyes you buy in the soottee stores. But offerings of the | |
| − | + | field. Mieliodories, that Doctor Faherty, the madison man, | |
| − | + | taught to gooden you. Poppypap's a passport out. And honey is | |
| − | + | the holiest thing ever was, hive, comb and earwax, the food for | |
| − | + | glory, (mind you keep the pot or your nectar cup may yield too | |
| − | + | light!) and some goat's milk, sir, like the maid used to bring you. | |
| − | + | Your fame is spreading like Basilico's ointment since the Fintan | |
| − | + | Lalors piped you overborder and there's whole households be- | |
| − | + | yond the Bothnians and they calling names after you. The men- | |
| − | + | here's always talking of you sitting around on the pig's cheeks | |
| − | + | under the sacred rooftree, over the bowls of memory where every | |
| − | + | hollow holds a hallow, with a pledge till the drengs, in the Salmon | |
| − | + | House. And admiring to our supershillelagh where the palmsweat | |
| − | + | on high is the mark of your manument. All the toethpicks ever | |
| − | + | Eirenesians chewed on are chips chepped from that battery | |
| − | + | block. If you were bowed and soild and letdown itself from the | |
| − | + | oner of the load it was that paddyplanters might pack up plenty and | |
| − | + | when you were undone in every point fore the laps of goddesses | |
| − | + | you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy. The game old | |
| − | + | Gunne, they do be saying, (skull!) that was a planter for you, a | |
| − | + | spicer of them all. Begog but he was, the G.O.G! He's dudd- | |
| − | + | andgunne now and we're apter finding the sores of his sedeq | |
| − | + | but peace to his great limbs, the buddhoch, with the last league | |
| − | + | long rest of him, while the millioncandled eye of Tuskar sweeps | |
| − | + | the Moylean Main! There was never a warlord in Great Erinnes | |
| − | + | and Brettland, no, nor in all Pike County like you, they say. No, | |
| − | + | nor a king nor an ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king. | |
| − | + | That you could fell an elmstree twelve urchins couldn't ring | |
| − | + | round and hoist high the stone that Liam failed. Who but a Mac- | |
| − | + | cullaghmore the reise of our fortunes and the faunayman at the | |
| − | + | funeral to compass our cause? If you was hogglebully itself and | |
| − | + | most frifty like you was taken waters still what all where was | |
| − | + | your like to lay the cable or who was the batter could better | |
| − | + | Your Grace? Mick Mac Magnus MacCawley can take you off to | |
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Текущая версия на 14:30, 11 января 2013
you presents, won't we, fenians? And it isn't our spittle we'll stint you of, is it, druids? Not shabbty little imagettes, pennydirts and dodgemyeyes you buy in the soottee stores. But offerings of the field. Mieliodories, that Doctor Faherty, the madison man, taught to gooden you. Poppypap's a passport out. And honey is the holiest thing ever was, hive, comb and earwax, the food for glory, (mind you keep the pot or your nectar cup may yield too light!) and some goat's milk, sir, like the maid used to bring you. Your fame is spreading like Basilico's ointment since the Fintan Lalors piped you overborder and there's whole households be- yond the Bothnians and they calling names after you. The men- here's always talking of you sitting around on the pig's cheeks under the sacred rooftree, over the bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow, with a pledge till the drengs, in the Salmon House. And admiring to our supershillelagh where the palmsweat on high is the mark of your manument. All the toethpicks ever Eirenesians chewed on are chips chepped from that battery block. If you were bowed and soild and letdown itself from the oner of the load it was that paddyplanters might pack up plenty and when you were undone in every point fore the laps of goddesses you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy. The game old Gunne, they do be saying, (skull!) that was a planter for you, a spicer of them all. Begog but he was, the G.O.G! He's dudd- andgunne now and we're apter finding the sores of his sedeq but peace to his great limbs, the buddhoch, with the last league long rest of him, while the millioncandled eye of Tuskar sweeps the Moylean Main! There was never a warlord in Great Erinnes and Brettland, no, nor in all Pike County like you, they say. No, nor a king nor an ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king. That you could fell an elmstree twelve urchins couldn't ring round and hoist high the stone that Liam failed. Who but a Mac- cullaghmore the reise of our fortunes and the faunayman at the funeral to compass our cause? If you was hogglebully itself and most frifty like you was taken waters still what all where was your like to lay the cable or who was the batter could better Your Grace? Mick Mac Magnus MacCawley can take you off to
