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.

I hope we don’t bug you, we just want to get by. With six legs that scurry, or wings to help fly. I’ve seen how you treat others of my own kind, by slipping the letter P, three spots after our eye.

Crickets have friends don't they though these can be much bigger