I’m a rhyming compound word who works hard so your hands are free. Sure, I may make you look like Quasimodo, but. . .

We were sentenced to burn in the evening hour. They masked their faces, but did not need the deniability. Our bodies were glowing fixtures adorned with glass, secondary to the revelry drowning us out below. When the party was over, our light dimmed... We survived another torturous night... but they'll need to burn us again for the next celebration.

You might find me in a pack, Though I'm not part of the main group. I'm often foiled by a bat. And I'm the one who can't be serious.

Carved into a pistol, it’s a count that’s hell felt, it’s a shame ending up as one on someone’s belt. Flaked into projectile heads to keep hold. Rest in this groove, make your mark in the fold.

Golden grid where morning dreams rest, nestled in syrup's embrace, a cozy lattice of warmth, each square a tiny pillow for a crispy delight.