I am the shattered pieces of ancient stones, A crunchy path that shifts and groans. Remove my final letter, I will rest in a final place. Directly in my middle, a techno party is in your face. What am I?

I rise past the ankle to swallow the shin, Two bodies of leather you must sink within. A tongue that is silent, a sole with no mind, I am left at the door when you leave me behind. What am I?

You walk into a room that contains a match, a kerosene lamp, a candle, and a fireplace. What would you light first?

In France I reign, and once my son went to war, I developed tastes for his kin. Sleeping at the butler's is where I get them; closing their eyes sure sounds dope. Sauce Robert is what I want; dip a leg in and bite with a crunch. Guess the butler wants to give me a fright: why is the leg so hairy? Was the mustard bad, or is he daring? It doesn't make sense, but here I am, with three little humans and nothing to eat.

Gone. Hole. Rod. What word do we all share?