"The Lyrical Years of the Community" is three songs

"The Lyrical Years of the Community"

At that time, he would think, think about being in love, right

gates, with weeds under gates

Their love roots have been planted deeply, and the young gentleman

Mr. Janitor, he may have done it in mahjong

The collision of souls is like teeth colliding against the mouth

Then the air rose to the hugeness of 201

forehead, let the owner of this building, clutch his stomach

The girl on the second floor is gone again, and someone is from the third floor

Throw down a pot of flowers, the beautiful flowers are not crisp enough

Of course, there is a mushy smell in the shouting, one after another

I heard that the peach tree downstairs got married, and its husband

Planted last night, probably cut down today, I'm on my first floor

Pause, drowsy, and the storm from over Sicily

To my window, the gentleman outside the door

A yawn rose at his feet

It will come to my dreams after I fall asleep

"The Day of Personality Confusion"

And that might be my little teapot

But why is it here, at this moment

And the ring on your hand is shining with a strange light

I've just eaten and I'm starting to get hungry again

And that modern poem is written by me, and it doesn't seem to be

I'd never fall in love with that cappuccino in front of the window

And where is it with that elegant cat?

The corners of my mouth are what you often call drunkenness

And this is not one of the five styles I'm used to

I will definitely forgive that girl, but I will not forgive the pot of eggs

There must be something in my little split in my soul

I don't know yet, daffodils and chocolate?

My hand will hold you, now tell me about the other me

with another of your whereabouts

"In the memories and not in the kitchen"

I might meet another me

We didn't use our fists or introduce ourselves

14 January

His hand might be able to raise the storm, so simply

Blew out the bright star

But he could not extinguish his dreams, in which he had no clothes

When that heroic cat, his cat

The fire created a fascinating smoke between his two fingers

He began to imagine that the wind was man-made, as well as downstairs

He even forgave the roadside flower

And her wet scarf is also reluctant to fall in love with that country teacher

Maybe I can show up and walk into his dusty brown booklet

When he couldn't bear what I endured, outside the moat

The rain fell on his scalp and slid down again

He would even blame his pillow for not giving him a good night's sleep

But he was given spondylosis and migraines

The Beast That Hides in My Flesh

Sunday in that plastic bag, and on the road

Flying ash, will you use the same voice as me?

Shout out the words that had been hidden for a long time on the glass of my window

of white snowflakes, cold in their depths

In the wide field of their hearts

I will be well aware that you, probably in my lungs, have also arrived

Over my chest with the Celestial Spirit Cover, all night

I would instinctively breathe and be in this dream that I had opened

In that red hawthorn, look for you

You are lost in my heart, and my flesh is not safe

The soul is a boat without oars

You won't be in my stomach, shared with me

Pine oil and roses, I'll use that narrow throat

With a greasy tone, sing you

and with bones, tempting thee, but not appearing