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.

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 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.