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.
I relate to this poem because I am constantly blamed for things that I did not do. (I guess it's a youngest-kid thing) If something is out of place or something happens that no one knows why, I am the one that everyone points their finger at.