Three poor scholars picked up a pile of money and started a dialogue between poetry and poverty.

Three scholars suddenly saw one on the road.

String of money, it is said that they saw it first, should belong to them.

Income. There was an argument and a county magistrate passed by. Look here.

The situation says, "Don't argue, you each write a poem: Who?"

The poorest people will get money. "Scholar A said," The hut is green.

There is no smoke in the stove in the sky. No chickens peck rice during the day, and no mice steal it at night.

Dinner. "Scholar B said," Heaven and earth are my home, and the moon is wax.

Candles, naked and cold, stay by the ditch. "Scholar c..

"I have been seriously ill for two or three years, and I have been on a hunger strike for seven or eight days. There is only a little left.

Breath, just wait for this string of money. "Scholars said eagerly.

Waiting for the magistrate's ruling, I saw the magistrate pick up the money and it was cold.

Smile. ...

this is mine