“For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.” – Lord Byron
Strange! I opened the linen closet to put clean towels away and this was hanging there. Nobody knows why it is there. Nobody knows how it got there. Nobody even knew that we had multi-colored paper clips. Mr. Nobody – hard at work again. He lives at our house, but every home should have one, a Mr. Nobody!
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 our doors ajar;
he pulls the buttons from our shirts,
and scatters pins afar,
that squeaking door will always squeak,
because of this you see:
we leave the oiling to be done
by Mr Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire,
So 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.
Walter de la Mare