A Programmer's Classical Chinese Rebuttal to Mom's 'Old, Ugly, and Broke'

Graying temples no longer recall the white-horse ballad; a chestnut steed on purple paths, riding with a golden whip.

Disheveled hair, gapped teeth — who would glance my way? Yet suitors toss fruits, filling carts, all vying to climb.

The cauldron gathers dust, clothes riddled with a hundred holes; candles burn like firewood through the night, brocade in a thousand strands.

When the mood strikes, I lean on a pillow, lying by the pine roots, and idly watch the drifting clouds fishing in the wild mist.