My drum knife is cooked in Yi Ya. The water wants to be new and the kettle wants to be clean, but the fire is evil. Chen Jiang doesn't change the fire for a long time, and the fire color is green. And the pay is bad. Nine steams are violent and the day is dry, and the soup is simmering. Try one cup on the top, two pincers before chewing the frost. Fried honey of rotten cherry beads, steamed lamb of apricot cheese. Clams are half-cooked and contain wine, while crabs are slightly raw and bad. Cover the beauty of polymers to support my gourmets. Wan Pi Ji Jiang, Yan Ru Li Tao. Play the jade instrument of Xiang Fei and drum the cloud of Di Zi. Life immortal's sepal green flower, dance ancient music's yulun robe. Lead the South China Sea to Boli, and consider Liangzhou's Pu Tao. May Mr. Wang's old age be divided into two parts. Waiting for the red tide on the jade cheek, the alarm is warm and ringing in the sandalwood groove. Suddenly tired of the wonderful singing of beads, draw the long rope of independence {worms}. Min's hands are tired and seldom rest, and he is suspicious of dry kisses and becomes ointment. Pour a jar of snow milk, and list a hundred _ Joan ships. Every eye is immersed in autumn water, and salty bones are drunk in spring mash. The beauty has gone away, but Mr. Fang has fled in Zen. The wind is blowing in the crab's eyes and the snow is floating in the rabbit's hair. Mr. Wang laughed, and the sky was wide and high.