Sonnet XLIII (With Apologies To E. Barrett Browning)

(... and no goddamn thanks to my boss.)

How do you irk me? Let us count, shall we?
You irk me to the depth and breadth and height
A saint would reach, feeling out of sight
For the ends o' disbelief and absurdity.
You irk me to the degree of hourly
Thoughts o' 'crutiatingly tor'trous homicide.
You irk me freely, as imbeciles have died.
You irk me thor'ghly, as they shat their brains.
You irk me with the brainlessness put to use
In your incompetence and in(s)anity.
You irk me so completely I refuse
To pity you - you irk me like no one else,
Not even assholes - and, if should blow my fuse,
I shall but tell you to go fuck yourself.