Answer:
For our ambrosia we were blessed, By Jupiter, with a sting of death. Though our might, to some is jest, We have quelled the dragon's breath. Who are we?
A pony trots his way through the world on these.
These animals hang out in the mist.
What has a coat? Hugs you not in sympathy? Whose smile you'd rather not see? Whose stance is a terrible thing to see? Who is it that brave men run away from? Whose fingers are clawed? Whose sleep lasts for months? And who's company we shunt?
It's voice is like a burp, Will swallow with a slurp, You'll never hear it chirp. Kiss it with a wince, Might turn into a prince
What did the grape do when he got stepped on?