Souls Like Old Hats

Strange how the soul knows what it knows, when it knows- These words are mine, and this proclivity; this suits and that unnerves. Avoid this, pursue that- it's like a vast closet of hats; And you won't wear just any: it must be special- not one of many. Fit perfectly on your head, and just like your brain Wants to be well fed, (and occasionally entertained) If you were a hat, I'd wear you proudly And never fret or grieve too loudly, I'd only take you off to sleep, And never toss you on the heap.