Half a Torn-Up Resignation Letter

So, in conclusion,
I retract my earlier accusation
that you are in fact a bitch
to work for. No, you're
more of a troll whore from Hades, perched
upon a stack of orphan souls. You wipe
your arse on crisp tenners
and pay me a pittance. You bum
pheasants. And why
is it that if I emerge
from my measly break
a milli-minute late, I am thrashed
with verbal birch, while you
park yourself below decks
like a Marmite-munching Ahab
for hours. Your fag times
are legendary.
The only
indication I have received
that I am the valued employee
the greying handbook touts me as
is the abundance of extra shifts
amputating my friend time, sex time,
trash-TV-festering time; these all being tacked on
without more than a day's notice.
Well, thanks. All the best.