These two places are hung,
Let's say March and April,
Who knows, five or six years.
The lyre has no intention of playing,
Eight-part essay can't be passed down,
The nine-ring chain never stops,
Shiliting is eager to try.
Hundred schools of thought contend,
A thousand ideas,
I have no choice but to blame Lang.
There are a thousand words to say,
Let me just talk about Nai Shiyi,
Climbing to see lonely geese on the Double Ninth Festival,
The Mid-Autumn Festival in August is full and people are not round.
In July and a half, I burned incense and raised candles to ask the sky.
In June, when people shook hands with me, I felt cold.
In May, pomegranate was like fire, but it was drenched with cold rain.
April loquat is not yellow, I want to be confused and anxious in front of the mirror.
Peach blossoms turn with water in March; Falling and falling,
The kite string was broken in February.
Hey! Lang Lang, I hope you are a woman in my next life, and I am A Lang!