I know this funny, tricky guy,
So smooth, so slick, so glib,
Who'll irk or whip up doubt throughout,
Our big but humdrum crib.*
To push to truly know his looks
Just won't work, too funny -
I know of chips on bowls or cups
From Mr. Nobody.
This ducky guy will rip out books
Will slip out, doors unshut
Pull buttons off, rip up good socks,
Drop pins to stick our butts!
Our old wood door, it will just stick
Think 'bout it, now, kindly:
Our jobs to oil such things will go
To Mr. Nobody.
This foxy chum’s too sly for us,
Your light switch, won’t turn off.
His muddy boots of unknown width
Slop through, no thought to doff.
Discounts tough dictums from our folks
‘Bout forms plus stock IDs -
It’s outright doc confusion now
By Mr. Nobody.
Ink dots or spots upon our doors:
His doing, this I vow.
This bum locks trunks, twists up our blinds -
I doubt if you’ll know how.
His color gloss drips on our floors,
Just how, not mostly known...
So, kudos to this shifty guy,
This Mr. Nobody!
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Author Notes
*crib - modern/urban slang for a person's place of residence. Example: "The teens went back to their crib to chill for the evening."
Oil here is read with one syllable. :)
Thanx for reading my insanity - I had fun! :) :)
Mr. Nobody
written by Anonymous
Source: The Golden Book of Poetry (1947)
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.
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