This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.

There isn’t one, there isn’t one!
How happy I am that there isn’t one!
Isn’t one what? Isn’t one me.
How happy I am that there isn’t one!

If there was one he would be
Mortgaged to age,
A wizened me,
Sickness-ridden years to spend,
Wrung by regret of vanished days,
And in the end,
With choking breath, Devoured by death.

Free from him who never was,
Free from him and free from care,
Free to work or stand and stare,
Free from fear and from desire,
Incombustible to lust’s fierce fire,
Free to tread the cosmic dance,
No longer slave of circumstance!

Beyond our selves and destinies
Only boundless Being is,
And That I am; no other me,
No birth, no death, no destiny.
All that is born shall come to die,
But not the unborn, deathless I.