Выготский, Лев Семёнович
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| − | '' | + | after Tom Bowe Glassarse or Timmy the Tosser. 'Tisrealy the |
| − | + | truth! No isn't it, roman pathoricks? You were the doublejoynted | |
| − | + | janitor the morning they were delivered and you'll be a grandfer | |
| − | + | yet entirely when the ritehand seizes what the lovearm knows. | |
| − | + | Kevin's just a doat with his cherub cheek, chalking oghres on | |
| − | + | walls, and his little lamp and schoolbelt and bag of knicks, playing | |
| − | + | postman's knock round the diggings and if the seep were milk | |
| − | + | you could lieve his olde by his ide but, laus sake, the devil does | |
| − | + | be in that knirps of a Jerry sometimes, the tarandtan plaidboy, | |
| − | + | making encostive inkum out of the last of his lavings and writing | |
| − | + | a blue streak over his bourseday shirt. Hetty Jane's a child of | |
| − | + | Mary. She'll be coming (for they're sure to choose her) in her | |
| − | + | white of gold with a tourch of ivy to rekindle the flame on Felix | |
| − | + | Day. But Essie Shanahan has let down her skirts. You remember | |
| − | + | Essie in our Luna's Convent? They called her Holly Merry her | |
| − | + | lips were so ruddyberry and Pia de Purebelle when the redminers | |
| − | + | riots was on about her. Were I a clerk designate to the Williams- | |
| − | + | woodsmenufactors I'd poster those pouters on every jamb in the | |
| − | + | town. She's making her rep at Lanner's twicenightly. With the | |
| − | + | tabarine tamtammers of the whirligigmagees. Beats that cachucha | |
| − | + | flat. 'Twould dilate your heart to go. | |
| − | + | Aisy now, you decent man, with your knees and lie quiet and | |
| − | + | repose your honour's lordship! Hold him here, Ezekiel Irons, and | |
| − | + | may God strengthen you! It's our warm spirits, boys, he's spoor- | |
| − | + | ing. Dimitrius O'Flagonan, cork that cure for the Clancartys! You | |
| − | + | swamped enough since Portobello to float the Pomeroy. Fetch | |
| − | + | neahere, Pat Koy! And fetch nouyou, Pam Yates! Be nayther | |
| − | + | angst of Wramawitch! Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, | |
| − | + | where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O | |
| − | + | sleepy! So be yet! | |
| − | + | I've an eye on queer Behan and old Kate and the butter, trust me. | |
| − | + | She'll do no jugglywuggly with her war souvenir postcards to | |
| − | + | help to build me murial, tippers! I'll trip your traps! Assure a | |
| − | + | sure there! And we put on your clock again, sir, for you. Did or | |
| − | + | didn't we, sharestutterers? So you won't be up a stump entirely. | |
| + | Nor shed your remnants. The sternwheel's crawling strong. I | ||
Версия 14:36, 11 января 2013
after Tom Bowe Glassarse or Timmy the Tosser. 'Tisrealy the truth! No isn't it, roman pathoricks? You were the doublejoynted janitor the morning they were delivered and you'll be a grandfer yet entirely when the ritehand seizes what the lovearm knows. Kevin's just a doat with his cherub cheek, chalking oghres on walls, and his little lamp and schoolbelt and bag of knicks, playing postman's knock round the diggings and if the seep were milk you could lieve his olde by his ide but, laus sake, the devil does be in that knirps of a Jerry sometimes, the tarandtan plaidboy, making encostive inkum out of the last of his lavings and writing a blue streak over his bourseday shirt. Hetty Jane's a child of Mary. She'll be coming (for they're sure to choose her) in her white of gold with a tourch of ivy to rekindle the flame on Felix Day. But Essie Shanahan has let down her skirts. You remember Essie in our Luna's Convent? They called her Holly Merry her lips were so ruddyberry and Pia de Purebelle when the redminers riots was on about her. Were I a clerk designate to the Williams- woodsmenufactors I'd poster those pouters on every jamb in the town. She's making her rep at Lanner's twicenightly. With the tabarine tamtammers of the whirligigmagees. Beats that cachucha flat. 'Twould dilate your heart to go.
Aisy now, you decent man, with your knees and lie quiet and
repose your honour's lordship! Hold him here, Ezekiel Irons, and may God strengthen you! It's our warm spirits, boys, he's spoor- ing. Dimitrius O'Flagonan, cork that cure for the Clancartys! You swamped enough since Portobello to float the Pomeroy. Fetch neahere, Pat Koy! And fetch nouyou, Pam Yates! Be nayther angst of Wramawitch! Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be yet!
I've an eye on queer Behan and old Kate and the butter, trust me.
She'll do no jugglywuggly with her war souvenir postcards to help to build me murial, tippers! I'll trip your traps! Assure a sure there! And we put on your clock again, sir, for you. Did or didn't we, sharestutterers? So you won't be up a stump entirely. Nor shed your remnants. The sternwheel's crawling strong. I
