This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.

Let’s say fantastic things,
Let’s say that pigs have wings;
But never let us say
This living lump of clay,
This song the Singer sings,
Is author of the play.

The play’s an accident,
Nobody wrote it;
It just happened so,
No use to quote it—
So they say.

You just happen to be
Because X met Y;
For awhile you are free
To reason why,
And then you die—
So they say.

But who is that ME in you?
Turn and look steadily.
Who is it that asks who?
Thoughts skip about readily;
Stop them a bit,
Ask who is it
Abides when they quit.
Who are you?