However, the content was nothing flattering.
“The moon, my moon, you are so beautiful…”
“Mid-Autumn Festival, families eat mooncakes. Finishing one, eating another one.”
Zhang Ye nearly cried tears seeing this. The voting process had already begun, but even the number one voted poem was average. The quality was not high.
Dong.
The doors to the auditorium closed.
The last signal bar on the cellphone disappeared. There was no way of going on the internet, so Zhang Ye kept his phone in his pocket. He was pondering how he could correct his reputation!
My poems aren’t good?
My poems have no literary value?
This was not denying Zhang Ye, but denying the famous masters of his world. Zhang Ye felt amused for them. This was only happening in this world. If it was switched to Zhang Ye’s world, would Meng Dongguo and company dare to question these poems? They would only be beaten to death if they did!