Mr. Southern Taoist, are you used to the cool autumn weather in the north?
Southern Taoist, do you like the northern monks?
The days passed like those nights spent exorcising ghosts
He was chewing glutinous rice and talking to the wall about his ideals.
Director Nanfang, we are all suffering from rigor mortis.
Taoist Priest Nanfang, is it the magic circle blocking your step?
Yesterday's rain dripped down his snow-white thighs
The Beidou in the night sky helps us find the direction of our approach
In the sun, he was drying his puppets in the middle of the yard.
He spreads sulfur in the wind of the four seasons
Southern Taoist, have you fallen in love with the monk?
Mr. Nanfang Daoist, you said you had pasted the yellow form paper on the door frame.