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Mr You

Quite often I am what I seem:
I'm so well rounded it's obscene;
I'm nice and noble, tried and true —
And other times, I'm Mr You.

Mr You lives in my head.
While I'm alone, he stays in bed,
But when I speak to someone new —
Ah! there's a job for Mr You!

He listens to each word you say
And stores them tidily away,
Then analysing — half sincere —
He says just what you want to hear.

Mr You is me, as such.
I do not like him all that much.
He's made me a generic shell —
But Mr You protects me well.