Brother Chao, get up and say some jingles.

Masons live in thatched cottages, weavers have no clothes, salt sellers drink light soup, they sleep in beds, farmers eat rice bran, grinders eat melons and seedlings, stir-fry and smell fragrant, wet nurses play around, they make coffins on their way to death, and coal diggers are like icehouse, and gold diggers are poor all their lives. It is said that Super Brother is charming, but lonely every night.

The sun is on the pole again. It is not enough to shine on the spine and stretch your legs and waist. It's normal to panic and feel sad without tears.

There will be frost tomorrow, and I have left my home in Sanqiu, three thousand miles away. Where is my home? In a few days, it will be Chongyang again, and the brothers will be busy with the holidays again. I'll push a glass to get drunk for a change, but I'm gone. Think of that playful panic.

Thinking is thinking, doing is doing, super brother wants to throw a warm bed, sprinkle water on his face, rub his teeth, get dressed, go out, think occasionally, and walk down the street like a dog.