Zhao Wujiang sat lazily on his seat, the look on his face gradually becoming solemn.
But in the eyes of the vast majority of guests from the prince's lineage, they almost all have only one idea.
Pretend, it’s up to you to pretend. It depends on how long you can keep pretending when the pen and ink comes.
Prince Ji Boying's smile grew stronger, and Zhao Wujiang's solemnity seemed to him to be tense.
My good brother, are you already nervous before it starts?
You must be sweating profusely after a while, and you don’t know how to deal with it?
Lin Yu, who was quietly guarding not far behind Zhao Wujiang, was really nervous.
Lin Yu knew that he had no education, but he also knew that His Highness seemed... not much better than him.
In the past, His Highness always took him to dress up in a little disguise and go out to drink wine, but almost every time he was defeated in the tea party. In the end, he had to bribe the madam privately to get through.
If you look through the cracks, you can see that His Highness has no talent, not much, but better than nothing, that's all.
Now that he has agreed to write a poem for the prince, if he can do one, that is probably the limit for his highness.
Lose, lose for sure, I just hope the loss is not so ugly... Lin Yu was confused.
Not long after, the pen, ink, paper and inkstone were respectfully delivered to Su Xiaoyao's desk by the clerk.
Yang Bingen couldn't wait to see His Royal Highness the Fourth Prince make a fool of himself. He helped Su Xiaoyao quickly remove the cups and bowls on the desk and put the pens, ink, paper and inkstones in place without any help from the clerk.
Su Xiaoyao shook her slender hands and began to polish the ink.
"Your Highness King Yin, please."
Her red lips parted slightly, and her voice was light and sweet, without the coldness she imagined.
Perhaps it was Zhao Wujiang's solemn look at this time that infected her, making her feel that no matter whether he wrote poems or not, at least his attitude towards writing poems was good, not as frivolous as before.
Zhao Wujiang raised his head slightly, looked at the lanterns, and thought silently in his heart.
[Brother Taibai, Brother Zimei, and all the other brothers, my brother Zhao Wujiang has made a name for you and borrowed your poems, so don’t be surprised.
If I have the chance to meet you in the future, I will treat you to a drink.
Amen...No...Ami...Bah...God of infinite blessings and longevity. 】
"There is bright moonlight in front of the bed..." Zhao Wujiang chanted softly. At this time, the light of the lanterns and candles came out through the gauze and gently fell on his face, giving him a melancholic temperament.
"Ah ha ha ha ha..." Many guests who were ready to watch the show couldn't help laughing.
What is the moonlight in front of the bed? What kind of children's colloquialism is this? What about artistic conception? What about rhetoric?
Prince Ji Boying's mouth twisted. He sneered in his heart, but tried his best not to show it.
My good brother, you really did not disappoint me. This is your true level.
Su Xiaoyao narrowed her beautiful eyes. She did not smile. She had already written a line on the rice paper with the character "Juan Xiu". She was waiting for the next word.
Zhao Wujiang was full of melancholy. He was like a traveler on a far journey, singing softly:
"There is bright moonlight in front of the bed, and I suspect it is frost on the ground.
Raise your head to look at the bright moon, lower your head to miss your hometown..."
"Hahaha...ha..." The laughter of the guests who were laughing felt as if someone had clamped their throats and strangled them. They stared at the melancholy His Highness Prince Yin, feeling that something was wrong!
Just by savoring it carefully, they felt the natural feeling of being natural without carvings, as well as the sincere feeling of homesickness.
This poem is probably when King Yin recalled that when he was ordered to go to the secret realm of Daolian, he missed the Immortal Dynasty of the Great Zhou Dynasty at night in a foreign land...
Ji Boying's smile froze on his face, and his hand holding the glass trembled slightly.
There is obviously no exquisite rhetoric and no lofty artistic conception. How can this poem...
How can it be so wonderful?
Is this something that his good brother, who is as rough as a fool, can chant?
