Party Weather Sonnet by Alyssa Perry

Secret long since ceased to be discrete,            
how can I break my bread, divvy miraculous the loaf of you? 
I’d as lief inoculate my eyeball with thistle;
as importune the stately, dour moon (no one really wishes to).
Give good fortune a chance to fend for itself. Repeal the whistle
I let loose too far, too shrilly-true for mute, 
ay me! to stop its carry? Unbecoming.  
Dropped, ne’er slacking, note, tally
forth to one I’d take to being two’d to: 
If you want what it is I won’t call 
by a name, I’ll hold off this prunch-dunk beagling.    
Rub: this: A wisp or a whip or this will he, nill he 
‘s never enough for me. I’m batter
up an’ atcha, no Caesar’s hart-murmur hinders, heck, hell!:
Wholly of holies, evergreen, prorogued, at-not-to-be sneezed, wherefore
waffling? These (touch ‘em) my imputations. I haste  
offstage to where—if luv—what’s foraged oughtn’t go to waste.