Poem - Mr. Nobody

I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse.
He does the mischief that is done
In everybody's house.
Though no one ever sees his face,
Yet one and 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 picks 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 will not boil:
His are the feet that bring in mud
And all the carpets soil.
The papers that so oft are lost -
Who has them last but he?
There's no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody.

The fingermarks upon the door
By none of us were 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.

~ Author Unknown