Bajie, hearing this, flew into a rage and cursed: 'You filthy thing! You've not a scrap of discernment.'

The demon has just sung fifty-two lines about his ruined celestial career, and Bajie has taken in none of it. 潑物, 'filthy thing,' and 沒一些兒眼色, 'not a scrap of eye for things' — meaning no judgement, no ability to read who is standing in front of you. Which, given what he has just failed to hear, is a charge he might have applied to himself.

'Why, old Hog can still wring the water-froth out of himself — how dare you call me coarse and mean to mince me into paste?'

還掐出水沫兒, 'can still have the water-froth pinched out of me' (還 is hái, 'still') — vernacular boasting about being fresh and juicy, the way you would test a piece of meat. And then he throws the demon's own 剁鮓醬, 'chop me into fish-paste,' straight back at him.

'It seems you've taken me for some old dried-out hide. Mind your manners — and take this rake from your grandsire!'

老走硝 is abuse for something worn out past use. It comes from the tanning yard: 硝 is the saltpetre that cures a hide, and a hide that has 'walked its saltpetre' has gone stiff and dead. 休得無禮, 'none of your rudeness' — here 得 is dé, the modal 'may not,' the same one as in 不得. Then 這一鈀, 'this rake' (鈀 pá), and the talking is over.

The monster, seeing the rake come, ducked it with a 'phoenix nodding its head,' and the two, fighting, drove up from the water to its surface,

鳳點頭, 'the phoenix nods its head,' is a named dodge out of the martial repertoire — the sort of thing a Ming reader recognised as a specific move rather than general ducking. 鈀 is pá. The fight then leaves the river-bed (水中, 中 zhōng) and comes up through the surface.

each treading the billows and mounting the waves. This bout was unlike the last — behold:

踏浪登波, 'treading the billows, mounting the waves' — the second duel is fought standing on the water rather than under it. The tag 你看那, 'now look at that' (那 nà), is the same stage direction as before: prose out, verse in.

The Curtain-Raising General, Marshal Tianpeng — each showed his powers, a marvel to behold.

捲簾將, the Curtain-Raising General (將 jiàng, a rank), and 天蓬帥, Marshal Tianpeng. The second rhapsody opens exactly as the first did — by their old job titles, neither of which either of them still holds.

That one's demon-quelling staff came whirling down at the head; this one's nine-toothed rake flew quick as the hand could move.

降妖寶杖 (降 xiáng, to subdue) coming down 著頭輪, 'whirling onto the head' — 著 as zháo, the reading for a blow that lands. Against it the nine-toothed 鈀 (pá), quick as the hand. Staff and rake, weighed line for line.

Leaping the waves, they shook the hills and streams; heaving the swells, they darkened the very world.

振山川, 'shook the hills and rivers,' and 昏世界, 'darkened the world.' Two men are hitting each other with farm tools and the verse has already reached the scale of geography. The overstatement is not a slip; it is what the form is for.

Fierce as the Year-God ramming the banners; grim as the Mourning-Gate lifting the jewelled canopy.

Both similes are drawn from the almanac rather than the bestiary. 太歲 is the Year Star, the deity of the year's ill fortune — still alive in the everyday warning about digging earth on Taisui's head, which is what you are said to be doing when you provoke somebody far above your weight. 喪門, the 'Gate of Mourning,' is another baleful star (似 is sì). The two fighters are being compared to bad dates in the calendar.

This one, red-hearted and stern, guards the Tang Monk; that one, steeped in crime, has become a water-fiend.

The couplet stops describing and starts judging. 赤心凜凜保唐僧, 'red-hearted and stern, he guards the Tang Monk,' set against 犯罪滔滔為水怪, 'crime-sodden, he has become a water-fiend' (為 wéi, to become; 那 nà). The irony is that both of them are convicted criminals of Heaven; only one has been recruited yet.

One rake-blow claws nine gashes; when the staff strikes home, the very souls give way.

九條痕, 'nine furrows' — one for each tooth of the rake (鈀 pá). The arithmetic is exact and rather horrible, and it is the sort of detail that keeps these set-pieces from floating off entirely. 魂魄敗, 'the souls routed,' does the same job for the staff.

Straining with a will, they grapple with relish; setting their hearts on it, each means to win the match.

喜相持, 'gladly locked together' (相 xiāng), and 要賭賽, 'set on winning the match.' They are, on the evidence, enjoying themselves.

Reckon it up: it is all for the scripture-seeker's sake that their wrath surges to Heaven past all bearing.

And then the verse remembers why any of this is happening. 只為取經人, 'all for the scripture-seeker's sake' (為 wèi). A quiet, deflating line: strip away the thunder and the cosmic disorder and it is two ex-officers scrapping over whether one frightened monk may cross a river.

They churn the water till carp and perch shed their bright scales, and turtles and terrapins bruise their tender shells;

攪得那, 'churned it until' (得 de, 那 nà) — and now the damage report from below. 鯁鮊鯉鱖 is four kinds of fish in four characters, and 龜鱉黿鼉 four kinds of shelled and armoured river creature. The line ends on a semicolon and is kept as its own unit.

red shrimp and purple crabs all lose their lives, and the gods of the water-palace bow upward in dread.

水府諸神朝上拜, 'the gods of the water-mansion bow upward' (朝 cháo). The river has its own court, with its own officials, and they are cowering. The disorder has spread from the fish to the civil service.

One hears only the waves rolling and tumbling like thunder-claps, sun and moon gone lightless, Heaven and Earth aghast.

波翻浪滾似雷轟, waves rolling like thunderclaps (得 de, 似 sì), and then 日月無光: sun and moon put out. The rhapsody ends where these always end, with the sky itself disturbed — and then the prose resumes and nothing whatever has been decided.