a biplane rudder

For in the tenth year, when roy victory / Was won to give the Greeks the spoil of Troy, / Return they did profess, but not enjoy, / Since Pallas they incens'd, and she the waves / By all the winds' power, that blew ope their graves.

We've been waiting for you many madsome moons, and the time is ripe for the harvest.

Nick made legs of his fingers and walked them on the baby's belly. . . . “[L]ook at those beer muscles!”