By Walter de la Mare

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 pine 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 blind 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.

Read my sequel to this poem:

It's Poor Mr Nobody Again