Classic Poem

This man is like a mechanical toy
Which runs, and streaks, and veers over the carpet,
With a noise of thin edges of tin
Whirring upon one another
In spirals of shrillness.
Even when you pick it up,
The wheels of the toy continue to whirl,
Grating incessantly.
They beat, and wobble, and whiz,
Inconceivably rapid rings of blurred spokes,
And the shrill scraping pierces one's eardrums
Like an auger.