A Satire on Myself
Lu Xun

Born under an unlucky star,
What could I do?
Afraid to turn a somersault,
Still my head received a blow.
My face hidden under a torn hat,
I cross the busy market.
Carrying wine in a leaking boat,
I sail downstream.
Eyebrows raised, coldly confronting
Accusing fingers of a thousand bullies.
Yet with my head bowed,
I’ll be an ox for children.
Secluded in my small attic,
I’ll enjoy my solitary state.
Who cares if it’s winter or summer?
Who cares if it’s autumn or spring?