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I love that. I rather like to believe we have a soul but maybe not in the traditional sense. Not something which lives on in some mysterious other place after our death but more a companion for life – the individual personality stamp we are given when born which gives us that other dimension. Something which guides us, follows us and leads us – the indescribable something which, if fed with the right basic foods, mysteriously sustains us when our physical selves are beaten. I hope the long headed chaps don’t know everything.
I like this definition of the soul. The seat of self – the self we spend so much of our lives learning to live with.
The seat of self – why didn’t I think of that instead of going all round the houses? Thank you Charles.
My soul is like a little bat.
I keep it underneath my hat,
And now and then I feel it flutter,
‘Til I slap on more salted butter.
As time goes by, my friendly bat,
Is really growing rather fat –
I’d never think he wasn’t there,
While he folollops in my hair.
Bone headed chaps who think they know,
Assure me that it can’t be so,
But sometimes as I lie in bed,
Hat pulled down tight upon my head,
I hear his laugh, robust and hearty,
And say, ‘What’s this – a bloody party?’
I think, should I give him an earful?
But then, what price a soul so cheerful?
And maybe, when I close my eyes,
He’ll think, as he takes to the skies,
He wasn’t bad, that queer old bloke –
It’s such a shame he had to croak.
Oh, that’s lovely!