It sits upon the lower playroom shelf,
its shoulders shrouded with a layer of dust.
The cymbals it once held have gone to rust.
Its yellowed teeth grin like the Fiend himself.
A tattered hat sits on its plastic head,
a pin-striped vest pulled tight around its waist.
The shards of that glass dome that once encased
the thing lie all around. Its eyes are red.
Once, long ago, a child put in the key
and wound the spring inside till it was tight.
He never could have known what he had done.
And now, the blasted thing's the only one
who ever moves, applauding every night
its handiwork. And no one knows but me.