Mr. Nobody lives under my bed, in a corner somewhere on the floor.

You never will see him; he keeps himself hid.  and he never likes using the door.

He only comes out when you turn off the light.  You can't see him but I know he's there.

He comes out to visit almost every night.  He comes just to give me a scare.

Once he just disappeared with magic he knows when mother looked under my bed.

He made himself look like a pile of my clothes, 'cause that's all that was there, mother said.

He doesn’t speak words; he don’t talk at all, but often I have heard him sigh.

He looks like an ink spot; he hasn’t a shape.  Just a shadow with one hateful eye.

His name is Nobody.  Now I know that sounds weird.  but I'll tell how I know should you care.

Because, when mom tucks me in she looks under the bed and she always say's, "Nobody's there."

He moves like a shadow wherever he goes, not a sound does he make while he's creeping.

But when mom says,  "good night," and closes my door, he appears before I am sleeping.

Sometimes my arm slips off of the bed and falls toward the floor when I slumber.

Then he tugs at my wrist with all of his might and tries to drag me down under.

When I awaken and my wrist is still numb.  I  still feel where his hands were once jerking.

And I know he is near, hiding out in the dark, in the shadows he's still somewhere lurking.       

One time I almost thought he went away, when mother said he wasn't real

But, now I believe what my father told me, last night when we ate our meal.

When I told him what mother had said and I asked him if she was right.

My father replied, without batting an eye, “Nobody comes in the night,”