“That’s so you!” The besom lassie cries,
And ticks the Like to send a winged
Mercury with laughing smiles.
“Indeed” I reply, frowning brow
Troubled by an existential paradox:
Who else might I be?
Me. Myself. This fragment of life;
Who am I? And why am I not he?
Him, or Her? What ambitions might
I have to be transformed, and live
A doubled life? Begone perplexing
Thoughts, it enough that I am me.
But then the thought creeps in, which
Me am I? There is a me on the inside,
And a me on the outside that others see;
And would I had their eyes, to compare
The two. Maybe the stoater lassie’s right
“That’s so you!” is who I really am.