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Mr. Nobody Author Unknown

Mr. Nobody
Unknown Author

 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 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.
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