No sale.

Retreat from the first feast,

you're due east; the weather is the weather.

Warning is as follows:

No one gives a shit about the werewolf den; you have the silver,

you're fine. The road will not appear;

until you fear the ghost tales. You must go, GO! And see beneath the green.

The leaves fade, the woods, the dirt, abruptly, a sidewalk of luminous Cyan.

Still can't come back home, days from your last feast.

"In such a void, what could possibly appear?"

Final steps in starvation, energy drink strength will tell whether

you were just the fool or--"is that pure gold?!"

Into the Witch's Wonka Spelunking tours into chasms most hollow.

Out of the other side? It'll never seem so..."did I volunteer to get swallowed?"

At least the streets look the same; ignore the overabundance of magenta.

Take in the pressure from the center singularity, DON'T get ironed

where you stand, don't spend eternity as its feast.

One step and the next through the hailstorm

that will never disappear.

Not until the new dialogues appears

on the jumbo tron. "The next number is," it bellows

from above. Not your stop, don't take the pills, RUN until the downpour

says tropical drinks only. Bartender slides down something blue-yellow,

the threads say no mouth speak before the ethereal feast.

Accept the hospitality, not the bronze.

Aged poorly, stains the hands, besides you're here to steal

the items are in order, and as they appear:

Chandelier from the King's feast,

yes, first. The cell keys, a lamb leg, the damned vase, with the shallow

inside, don't skip the obsidian

pillow AND gem. Guards against the parasitic snowfall.

Journey near over, stay low in the Living Fog,

keep the pendant of platinum

close, and away from the lab coats in hyperbolic caution orange.

And like that you reappear.

Home-ish. Safe-ish. Happier-ish. Ignore the chest beating hollowly.

That's how you get your placement high at the feast.

...No. What? NO. Why would I do any of--*sigh*

No. I recognize no BEAST in your tale that can survive my rain bomb.

Smoke or otherwise, you all would never follow; I've got my own tin

Talisman of the Savage Lands. Not trying to appear, it's a visit from the gray.