When I was but a little girl
My mother read to me
A poem about a funny man
Called Mr Nobody.
So did this man really exist
And do such awful things?
Oh yes, he’s known by many folk,
Both simple folk and kings.
Poor soul, he cannot answer back
And always takes the blame.
He’s one who can’t defend himself
Now isn’t that a shame?
When things go missing, things go wrong,
When mud’s left on the floor;
When something’s broken, or upset - -
Oh yes, and there’s much more:
When milk is spilt, a chair is broken,
Your school books disappear;
When your shirt is oh so badly torn
And stains on clothes appear . . .
Well, things much worse than all of these
Can drive you to despair,
And you know who will get the blame -
Well is that REALLY fair?
Copyright on all my poems