[Presenting a poem about LOL]
The businesswoman does not know the hatred of a fallen country, when going out she must bring a Doran's Shield. During the Qingming Festival, rain drizzles endlessly. Various teammates, various pitfalls. Every ten steps, one person is sent off; for a thousand miles, a super-kill is gifted. The old man briefly revives the youthful craziness—Zhao Xin on the left, Wukong on the right—taking first blood, never surrendering. Even if the crystal breaks, so what? Who can match me in respawn and teleport? Can draw a mighty bow like a full moon, on the ice, killing Wukong. Sleeping in spring, unaware of the dawn, the sword saint runs everywhere. Asking how much sorrow one can have is just like having a group of teammates giving away kills.
