It may be, you'll hear tales of yore,
From one, who thinks he'd lived before,
but don't you be too quick to find,
That he is quite out of his mind.
It may be, there's some obscure link,
That causes some to realy think,
That they had lived another day.
It may be, that it works, this way:
It may be, all those chromosomes and genes,
Are like the chips, in our machines.
It may be, that they stay alive,
Where other things do not survive.
It may be, in our ashes, and our dust,
These genes are saved, from rot, or rust,
And, helped by earth, and air, and rain,
We eat them, back, into the brain.
It may be, this will serve to show,
That all those folks, who think they know.
That they have, surely, lived before,
May, in their brains, have genes of yore.