The Scapegoat

When we were young, there used to be

A man called Mr Nobody.

Within our house for years he dwelt,

And often made his presence felt,

But was he large or was he small,

Was he really there at all?

For no-one ever chanced to see

Elusive Mr Nobody.

Yet, Mr Nobody was blamed

For deeds too dreadful to be named,

Though some were accidents, it's true,

Like spilling squash, or ink, or glue

On the new carpet... Things mislaid,

Or broken, at his door were laid,

And crayoned pictures - worst of all -

By unknown artists on the wall.

So nowadays, when I can't find

A matching sock, or call to mind

Where missing spectacles might be,

I think of Mr Nobody,

And wonder, is he back again?

If so, his presence would explain

So many things that puzzle me...

Are you there, Mr Nobody?

Kathleen O'Farrel