Mr. Nobody

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 out 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.

The finger marks upon the door     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.