Treacherous Track

This sour green soup I roll down the tiles, this elixir I pour down the grid o’ squares ‘mong the handy hazards & the slammin’ steel in the foggy fumes, is for my occult spell, & with it I shall finally be granted a clean rusty inbound (there’s also mo’ troll’s gold, too, I guess) in return for my rusty sinuses. However, my witch’s broom will be lost fore’er in the snowy mounts o’ Canada, & I shall have to walk home listening to radio signals. However, the fog & crescent moon made good guides.

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