Answer:
We are five little objects of an everyday sort, You will find us all in a tennis court.
What can you fold but not crease?
My sides are firmly laced about, Yet nothing is withinΝΎ You'll think my head is strange indeed, Being nothing else but skin.
Die without me, never thank me. Walk right through me, never feel me. Always watching, never speaking. Always lurking, never seen.
A warrior amongst the flowers, he bears a thrusting sword. He uses it whenever he must, to defend his golden hoard.
A leathery snake, with a stinging bite. I'll stay coiled up, unless I must fight.