Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet it is not ashamed to look fresh.
Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours, full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the water are ever striving to be new.
Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that, sitting in your den?
Dada
Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener cultivates flowers. My poems have substance and weight in them.
Yes, they are like the turnips, which cling to the ground.
Dada
Well, then, listen to me——
How awful! Here's Dada going to run amuck with his quatrains.
Oh dear, oh dear! The quatrains are let loose. There's no holding them in.