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Donuts aren't so much to ask, but this house isn't up to task. |
| red stone portal lined with ash snags the boots and snags the bag presents topple to the pit atop them, someone's Santa sits astride the room is white temptation he won't deny the sweet satiation he stumbles, slobbering, to the milk and guzzles it, no drop is spilt but next to the now-empty flask a plate for which he'd never ask sneaking back the way of smoke, he leaves no presents, just the note: "unimpressed by orange roots next time offer proper foods" /* 14 lines, does not contain the letter C * (unless I've missed one—please let me know) */ |