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. 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.
