Saturday, September 28, 2013

Poetry

I can remember sitting in the dining room at Zenobia Street, while mom sat in the dining chair that was against the wall under the "Train Picture" (you all know which one it is still hanging to this day I believe), reading Mr Nobody from the Childcraft Library volume 2. I can't put my finger on it but I think some event triggered this particular reading. Remember the chair it was the one with the arms, so it was very important.

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