I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done,
In everybody’s house!
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree,
That every plate we break was cracked,
By Mr Nobody.
‘Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For, prithee, don’t you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire,
That kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud,
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid,
Who had them last but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr Nobody.
The finger-marks up on the door
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we spill; the books
That lying round you see
Are not our books; they all belong
To Mr Nobody.
© anonymous

Leave a Reply