gri_2003_m_46_b03_f08_031
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.083
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.034
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- WINNER - 65790479 - landfordjohnmartin
- 66036106 - pleiades33
- 66069932 - Preacher357
- 66173683 - JohnDM
- 66228463 - teresaanne
- 66269148 - not-logged-in-af277968e20151ff91ae
WINNER - 65790479 - landfordjohnmartin
Polydor (iv)Innocent poet on the mat marked Welcome.
Since he read the capitals he lounges
Never re-reading the letters upside down
Or puzzling minatory anagrams.
Travelled poet with a map of the trade root
Between the leaf and the underground stream,
Between Venice and the rusty branch line,
Do you know the way to an empty door?
When are you going to dress, pot of flesh?
When are you going to sleep, poet of night?
The poet of night and the poet of flesh
Are one and the same at a crimson door.
The twenty-fourth door is unoccupied:
Perfume and smells of cooking alternate.
Breathless at the fingerprints on the plate
I wonder whose they are: I think I'll wait.
august-September mcml
66036106 - pleiades33
Polydor (Iv)Innocent poet on the mat marked Welcome.
Since he read the capitals he lounges
Never re-reading the letters upsidedown
Or puzzling minatory anagrams.
Travelled poet with a map of the trade root
Between the leaf and the underground stream,
Between Venice and the rusty branch line,
Do you know the way to an empty door?
When are you going to dress, poet of flesh?
When are you going to sleep, poet of night?
The poet of night and the poet of flesh
Are one and the same at a crimson door.
The twenty-fourth door is un-occupied:
Perfume and smells of cooking alternate.
Breathless at the fingerprints on the plate
I wonder whose they are: I think I'll wait.
august-september meml
66069932 - Preacher357
Polydor (iv)Innocent poet on the mat marked Welcome,
Since he read the capitals he lounges
Never re-reading the letters upsidedown
Or puzzling minatory anagrams.
Travelled poet with a map of the trade root
Between the leaf and the underground stream,
Between Venice and the rusty branch line,
Do you know the way to an empty door?
When are you going to dress, poet of flesh?
When are you going to sleep, poet of night?
The poet of night and the poet of flesh
Are one and the same at a crimson door.
The twenty-fourth door is un-occupied:
Perfume and smells of cooking alternate.
Breathless at the fingerprints on the plate
I wonder whose they are: I think I'll wait.
august-september mcml
66173683 - JohnDM
Polydor (iv)Innocent poet on the mat marked Welcome,
Since he read the capitals he lounges
Never re-reading the letters upsidedown
Or puzzling minority anagrams.
Travelled poet with a map of the trade root
Between the leaf and the underground stream,
Between Venice and the rusty branch line,
Do you know the way to an empty door?
When are you going to dress, poet of flesh?
When are you going to sleep, poet of night?
The poet of night and the poet of flesh
Are one and the same at the crimson door.
The twenty-fourth door is unoccupied:
Perfume and smells of cooking alternate.
Breathless at the fingerprints on the plate
I wonder whose they are: I think I'll wait.
august-september mcml
66228463 - teresaanne
Polydor (iv)Innocent poet on the mat marked Welcome.
Since he read the capitals he lounges
Never re-reading the letters upsidedown
Or puzzling minatory anagrams.
Travelled poet with a map of the trade root
Between the leaf and the underground stream,
Between Venice and the rusty branch line,
Do you know the way to an empty door?
When are you going to dress, poet of flesh?
When are you going to sleep, poet of night?
The poet of night and the poet of flesh
Are one and the same at a crimson door.
The twenty-fourth door is un-occupied:
Perfume and smells of cooking alternate.
Breathless at the fingerprints on the plate
I wonder whose they are: I think I'll wait.
august-september mcml
66269148 - not-logged-in-af277968e20151ff91ae
Polydor (iv)Innocent poet on the mat marked Welcome,
Since he read the capitals he lounges
Never re-reading the letters upsidedown
Or puzzling minatory anagrams.
Travelled poet with a map of the trade root
Between the leaf and the underground stream,
Between Venice and the rusty branch line,
Do you know the way to an empty door?
When are you going to dress, poet of flesh?
When are you going to sleep, poet of night?
The poet of night and the poet of flesh
Are one and the same at a crimson door.
The twenty-fourth door is un-occupied:
Perfume and smells of cooking alternate.
Breathless at the fingerprints on the plate
I wonder whose they are: I think I'll wait.