"how do ya fry them"?

In batter of course!

Now you've made me look up THE BAT-POET by Randall Jarrell, p. 37. Here's the end of a longer poem:

Their single shadow, printed on the moon
Or fluttering across the stars,
Whirls on all night; at daybreak
The tired mother flaps home to her rafter.
The others are all there.
They hang themselves up by their toes,
They wrap themselves in their brown wings.
Bunched upside down, they sleep in the air.
Their sharp ears, their sharp teeth, their quick sharp faces
All dull and slow and mild.
All the bright day, as the mother sleeps,
She folds her wings about her sleeping child.

Charley Noble