Utter Lack Of Gall

I am writing to inform you, cur,

of your utter lack of gall;
your deficiency of stoic grit,
and your flaccid, whiny pall.
Your tendency to give a shit
over inconsequential news
stirs within me acute need
to vomit on your shoes.

I'm writing to inform you, prick,
of the prevalent view
that knowing you is to have a tumour
not easily removed.
But I cut off that growing rumour,
for it's a bombastic aggravation.
You lack the gravity of cancer;
you're more like constipation.

You're repugnant and you're petulant:
your infantile will supine and torpid;
I'd fight, but you're more page than knight,
more jellyfish than spine.

I know you are possessive,
and so I hope this missive possesses you to hiss.
Never yours, yet sincere always,
I am Moray Jaundice.