MR. NOBODY
There is 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 and cup was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.
’Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves our doors 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.
The finger marks upon the doors
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade;
The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying round you see
Are not our boots—they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.