I've got four distict minds in one:
One is the frivolity,
The official ass
Two is the "he" who catches
The falling solid, not liquid or gas
Two is the mute realist,
Mood in the dumps often
Only wishes one's stool,
Someday, would soften
Three is an optimist
Into high fives and victory signs
What he says are confident cacophonies
Not workable coherent rhymes
Four is the grand philosopher
Lost in his own aged cloud
Not present most of the time
Appears only when things get loud
There's really a missing "we"
It's a coalition of the unwilling
We could chorus together
We have spit to fling
