I have a mouth but never talk And I can run but never walk What am I?

I get you down, but without me there is no up. I'm a heavy topic.

Three syllables, a clue for each, so hear my shrill call as i screech: First is an old Texan’s term for a matron. Second, a ruler, a leader, a patron. Last is my class, i’m a fine feathered peer; All together, my voice might resemble a jeer

I orbit a planet, often with friends. I race down a track, through thin copper bends. I’m certainly small, but mighty in number. Jump from doorknobs to hands, or to earth before thunder

Scales overlapped, Heart devoured. Friendly thistle, Not yet flowered.