They tell me what I am could not be so,
That my imagination's overused.
But if they are not me, how could they know?
I think I'd realize, if I were confused.
I've questioned it myself, this beast inside,
And found I'm questioning just that: myself.
There is no exorcism to be tried,
And no sure cure, at least not off a shelf.
I tell them now, religion's logic falls
A distance farther than a feline soul,
And I will land on feet! The Scripture stalls;
For God's protection racket, no parole.
We both omit the minor premise; fine.
But I'm myself: my me is truly mine.