At thirty-one, a man is in his prime,
I'm finally no longer a tender sprout,
I've come to know the vastness of heaven and earth, the deceit and betrayal.
Hypocrisy is my underwear,
Anger seethes spicy from my very bones,
Don't cry for me,
That's equivalent to being a living widow.
The swirling red dust has rolled me far away,
Romantic rendezvous under the moon are not as good as spending money in the daylight.