Shall I compare thee? (there is none)

You know that time when you're too clever for your own good? Skipping down the street, disdaining to bend and smell the roses (the salty ones, my dear and the dishwater too). Waggling a finger at the sky and writing ironic poetry about drugstore epiphanies. And croquet players are warbling and you are seeing only yourself reflected in a thousand bending leaflets. And this summer day is for you. Created, molded really, into sumptuous curves that wonderbra-like (lift and separate, my little cream puff) counterfeit whatever is lacking. And you're ready to cry on the shoulders of strangers. You're ready to bring down sparrows with your tongue. Ready for skunkwhispering (what's the scent on the wind?) and whistling in the dark. These are your esoteric skills. That is your avocation.