A meager life with weeds for guts, one meal is enough to fill.
Rank and rotten hues are hard to bear, let alone the poison within.
Bloated and强行 called a fish, its murderous air breeds dark gloom.
Since it's no tool for nurturing life, it should spare the chopping block's cruelty.
The folks of Wu truly bungle things, nets and ropes leave no offspring spared.
Risking life to decide with chopsticks, servants shrink back, hands sweating.
This morning a lad from the village, his greedy lips couldn't wait for it to cook.
In deep sleep, couldn't be roused, already entered the new ghosts' register.
A lifetime's three-inch throat, rich with delicacies from land and water.
If one thing doesn't reach the plate, it doesn't betray the general's belly.
For the mouth, forgetting to plan for the body, dying gluttonously—why weep enough?
Who started this custom? To this day it runs in vulgar fashion.
Some say it was the ancient kings' intent, to weed out evil like planting beans.
The rebel owl and the poisonous beast, year after year offered with silks and jades.
Uprooted and brought as sacrificial fare, aiming to exterminate their kind.
Life and death have fixed numbers, a severed fate cannot be renewed.
Those who meet at such a time, cannot be judged by one rule alone.
The turtle cauldron angered Master Gong, the mutton soup shamed Hua Yuan.
Exotic flavors were treasured in ancient times, no need to fear and shrink back painfully.
Speaking these words in a huddled crowd, admonitions only invite disdain.
Deaf and blind, they die unawares, clearly knowing—the light already shines.