I'm just #2 (of a project series)

I'm just like Angus 
except I don't play 
on anything electric 
at all so OK. I strum 
chords, man, chords! 
But I choppa-chunk HARD,
like chores, but I add a note:
joyous force! And when I'm
going for mine, I get yours.

I add seventh string to the 
guitar's six: a sung voice, to
the harmony charge and it
kicks like a not-quite "bard"
but a true badore!

I am a badore. Must remember 
that word. Bad. Ore. 

GOLD. 

Got it. 
It manages
atop that harmony base
like a brute pop-conducting
acid flashing from sweet to 
sharp tartness too hard, then 
flattening and deepening out,

bringing melodic cool hot cold
content in words like a barge,
toting hope, bilge, gold, wet lead 
(blood-wet) and steel, gems here
and to there, flowing current of
turning wheel - like an ace! Done

to deucedly suit anyplace, club,
diamond or heart. I can face. I cups
coins, beat spades to shards and flip,
forged to swords, I amaze like an arrow's
dart sure to a bull, taking eyes with a wave
of a wand upstage! Transformed to stave! By
an arcane octave of two-point five. It's a phase

I will never get out of alive. If you must: call me
one-star general officer, sir, poised to command or
serve in a global disarmy of five, so call a spade

to your own mind's hand - you dig? A shaft? I speak
schmaltz minus jive and it lasts, and it fasts, and it's
so fresh from the bath

it comes out nude!

Screams eureka in a streaking  beeline path
to the king on a bet to tell GOLD. It's a tarot deck
strip poker match, I'm told. Not crude,
just coarse, not rude: rude-hewn,
is my courtesy and I cannot say "dude." 

Nor call one tune, but I tune them all
vulgar in the common sense. Just
uncommonly fine. So here, there.

That's trust.

It's there and right here galore,
if you see! You could call it on time,
but your call would be late. For ya face, 

from my mouth 
loud large, 

don't hate, but it's free! 
I could speak vehemently! 
I would aim on point, not 
at person, or cuzz. Just 'cause
I can't can't call you bad. Just was,
or just sure-'nuff bad for me, 

...if I had. Have I ever?
Hey, 
that's between one and two. Are 
you wannabe three to that bond?
Strike two. Skip four, take five and
figure out where you fit, 
when did not then,
and 

...so how now? Right? How is it?
That's the laugh math bathhouse
wheelhouse gashouse logic I can't
but adore, 'cause it runs to wreck,
rack, ruin all I abhor. In my 
self of course! 

And we're good, I 
am sure. Unless you 
disconcur, and I will take 
your true verdict no loss, 
kind sir or man, madam 
or mademoiselle - or whatever 
address you prefer me to not 
address you by! A fair ask, 
I say. Reasonable, yes. And by far: 

OK.

I am not the judge of any humanity 
save mine: my own, my peeps 
who can always score. On theirs,
mine or our behalf. 'Cause 

it's free. We give it so, 
and so fair. So,
 
Not so much very like A. 
Young at all, sorry there,
but my AC/DC-for-life 

chest

will never be bare, when 
I have so many brand-clean 
tour shirts! Man.

Some of them 
are getting
way too tight 
to hurt. 

But I might
care to dare 

if I plan to 

flirt.