gri_2003_m_46_b05_f25_005
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.061
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.039
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- 68844553 - tmeconverse
- 69121462 - jesseytucker
- WINNER - 69435227 - lenger
- 70005169 - Scotssunflower
- 70075490 - Zooniverse2017
- 70963192 - altheist
68844553 - tmeconverse
The Childhood of the PoetWas there a king dead in the waste lot
Among the derelict boards of trespassers,
The tyres and rusty cans, the puddles
That break like glasses at attacking weather,
Was there a king and was he dead when I left?
How many assassins ended on dry boards?
One who might have known the fire-escapes,
The tropic island at the time-bomb moment,
Dies on the cracked and lengthwise boards
As if he were spilt milk in a cafe.
Was there a half-caste drowned at high-tide?
Her body disintegrates in long
Undulent tunnels of undefined span
Or is islands patient as coral
Under the uneventful outside of the sea.
Was there a virgin buried in the avalanche?
When the stones buried her perhaps they buried
The entrance of a mine in the defile,
Hid a window box and a tennis court
From the sight of her lover on the hill.
How many poets perished at my hands?
Their bodies melting like snowmen
Into the papers that might have held poems,
Or stifled at the bottom of the bed
Like lions beneath the stone feet of a knight.
Was there a princess suffocated here?
The suiter that might have sacrificed her age
And made a paradise by paradox
Will never happen for historians
Who might have prospered on her exquisite crimes.
Was there a singer sighted to extinction?
Is she more, who might have serenaded
Princes tiny behind their opera glasses?
Empty the stage and unthrown the roses.
The voluptuous gestures are curtained.
Was there a hero I triumphed over
And only just in time? When I stood up,
Panting a little, wind crowded me
Like ovoid cudgels or spitting cupidons.
I had to run and fix my passport fast.
69121462 - jesseytucker
The Childhood of the PoetWas there a king dead in the waste lot
Among the derelict boards of trespassers,
The tyres and rusty cans, the puddles
That break like glasses at attacking weather.
Was there a king and was he dead when I left?
How many assassins ended on dry boards?
One who might have known the fire-escapes.
The tropic island at the time-bomb moment,
Dies on the cracked and lengthwise boards
As if he were split milk in a cafe.
Was there a half-casts drowned at high-tide?
Her body disintegrates in long
Undulent tunnels of undefined span
Or is islands patient as coral
Under the uneventful outside of the sea.
Was there a virgin buried in the avalanche?
When the stones buried her perhaps they buried
The entrance of a mine in the defile,
Hid a window box and a tennis court
From the sight of her lover on the hill.
How many poets perished at my hands?
Their bodies melting like snowmen
Into the papers that might have held poems,
Or stifled at the bottom of the bed
Like lions beneath the stone feet of a knight.
Was there a princess suffocated here?
The suites that might have sacrificed her age
And made a paradise by paradox
Will never happen for historians
Who might have prospered on her exquisite crimes.
Was there a singer sighed to extinction?
Is she more, who might have serenaded
Princes tiny behind their open glasses?
Empty the stage and unthrown the roses.
The voluptuous gestures are curtained.
Was there a here I triumphed over
And only just in time? When I stood up,
Panting a little, wind crowded me
Like ovoid cudgels or spitting cupidons.
I had to run and fix my passport fast.
WINNER - 69435227 - lenger
The Childhood of the PoetWas there a king dead in the waste lot
Among the derelict boards of trespassers,
The tyres and rusty cans, the puddles
That break like glasses at attacking weather,
Wast there a king and was he dead when I left?
How many assassins ended on dry boards?
One who might have known the fire-escapes,
the tropic island at the time-bomb moment,
Dies on the cracked and lengthwise boards
As if he were spilt milk in a cafe.
Was there a half-caste drowned at high-tide?
Her body disintegrates in long
Undulant tunnels of undefined span
Or is islands patient as coral
Under the uneventul outside of the sea.
Was there a virgin buried in the avalanche?
When the stones buried her perhaps they buried
The entrance of a mine in the defile,
Hid a window box and a tennis court
From the sight of her lover on the hill.
How many poets perished at my hands>
Their bodies melting like snowmen
Into the papers that might have held poems,
Or stifled at the bottom of the bed
Like lions beneath the stone feet of a knight.
Was there a princess suffocated here?
The suites that might have sacrificed her age
And made a paradise by paradox
Will never happen for historians
Who might have prospered on her exquisite crimes.
Was there a singer sighed to extinction?
Is she more, who might have serenaded
Princes tiny behind their opera glasses?
Empty the stage and unthrown the roses.
The voluptuous gestures are curtained.
Was there a hero I triumphed over
And only just in time? When I stood up,
Panting a little, wind crowded me
Like ovoid cudgels or spitting cupidons.
I had to run and fix my passport fast.
70005169 - Scotssunflower
The Childhood of the PoetWas there a king dead in the waste lot Among the derelict boards of trespassers, The tyres and rusty cans, the puddles That break like glasses at attacking weather. Was there a king and was he dead when I left?
How many assasins ended on dry boards? One who might have known the fire-escapes, The tropic island at the time-bomb moment, Dies on the cracked and lengthwise boards As if he were spilt milk in a cafe.
Was there a half-caste drowned at high-tide? Her body disintegrates in long Undulent tunnels of undefined span Or is islands patient as coral Under the uneventful outside of the sea.
Was there a virgin buried in the avalanche? When the stones buried her perhaps they buried The entrance of a mine in the defile, Hid a window box and a tennis court From the sight of her lover on the hill.
How many poets perished at my hands? Their bodies melting like snowmen Into the papers that might have held poems, Or stifled at the bottom of the bed Like lions beneath the stone feet of a knight.
Was there a princess suffocated here? The suites that might have sacrificed her age And made a paradise by paradox Will never happen for historians Who might have prospered on her exquisite crimes.
Was there a singer sighed to extinction? Is she more, who might have serenaded Princes tiny behind their opera glasses? Empty the stage and unthrown the roses. The voluptuous gestures are curtained.
Was there a hero I triumped over And only just in time? When I stood up Panting a little, wind crowded me Like ovoid cudgels or spitting cupidons. I had to run and fix my passport fast.
70075490 - Zooniverse2017
The Childhood of the POETWas there a king dead in the waste lot
Among the derelict boards of trespassers,
The tyres and rusty cans, the puddles
That break like glasses at attacking weather.
Was there a king and was he head when I left?
How many assassins ended on dry boards?
One who might have known the fire-escapes,
The tropic island at the time-bomb moment,
Dies on the cracked and lengthwise boards
As if he were spilt milk in a cafe.
Was there a half-caste drowned at high-tide?
Her body disintegrates in long
Undulant tunnels of undefined span
Or is islands patient as coral
Under the uneventful outside of the sea.
Was there a virgin buried in the avalanche?
When the stones buried her perhaps they buried
The entrance of a mine in the defile,
Hid a window box and a tennis court
From the sight of her lover on the hill.
How many posts perished at my hands?
Their bodies melting like snowmen
Into the papers that might have held poems,
Or stifled at the bottom of the bed
Like lions beneath the stone feet of a knight.
Was there a princess suffocated here?
The suites that might have sacrificed her age
And made a paradise by paradox
Will never happen for historians
Who might have prospered on her exquisite crimes.
Was there a singer sighed to extinction?
Is she more, who might have serenaded
Princes tiny behind their opera glasses?
Empty the stage and unthrown the roses.
The voluptous gestures are curtained.
Was there a hero I triumphed over
And only just in time? When I stood up,
Panting a little, wind crowded me
Like avoid cudgels or spitting cupidons.
I had to run and fix my passport fast.
70963192 - altheist
The Childhood Of The PoetWas there a king dead in the waste lot
Among the derelict boards of trespassers,
The tyres and rusty cans, the puddles
That break like glasses at attacking weather,
Was there a king and was he dead when I left?
How many assassins ended on dry boards?
One who might have known the fire-escapes,
The tropic island at the time-bomb moment,
Dies on the cracked and lengthwise boards
As if he were spilt milk in a cafe.
Was there a half-caste drowned at high-tide?
Her lady disintegrates in long
Undulant tunnels of undefined span
Or is island patient as coral
Under the uneventful outside of the sea.
Was there a virgin buried in the avalanche?
When the stones buried her perhaps they buried
The entrance of a mine in the defile,
Hid a window box and a tennis court
From the sight of her lover on the hill.
How many poets perished at my hands?
Their bodies melting like snowmen
Into the papers that might have held poems,
Or stifled at the bottom of the bed
Like Lions beneath the stone feet of a knight.
Was there a princess suffocated here?
The suites that might have sacrificed her age
And made a paradise by paradox
Will never happen for historians
Who might have prospered on her exquisite crimes.
Was there a singer sighed to extinction?
Is she more, who might have serenaded
Princes tiny behind their opera glasses?
Empty the stage and unthrown the roses.
The voluptuous gestures are curtained.
Was there a hero I triumphed over
And only just in time? When I stood up,
Panting a little, wind crowded me
Like ovoid cudgels or splitting cupidons.
I had to run and fix my passport fast.