I cannot compliment.
I rather insult:
You are as orange as the flames of hell,
as dimwitted as a bug,
as immoral as Satan,
as ugly as a turd in the pool,
as reckless as a drunkard at a church social,
as hateful as Satan again,
the mythical Satan, because I don’t believe
in Satan, but even Satan, the Miltonic
Satan, is somewhat sympathetic,
whereas you are NOT.
You have the compassion of
a nuclear missile, the kindness
of shrapnel, the beauty of a
bloody, oozing, gaping wound.
String every insulting curse-word
together right here: _____________,
and you would have some idea
of the opinion I have of you.
Oh, how I hate thee;
let me count the ways.
And while we reference famous
sonnets, we may as well
reference the greatest of all
sonneteers, Shakespeare,
and gather together some of
his most choice insults to hurl
in your general direction:
you stockfish, you canker-blossom,
you clay-brained guts,
you naughty-pated fool,
you whoresome, obscene
greasy tallow-catch,
you eel’s skin, you dried neat’s tongue,
you bull’s pizzle.
Oh, for breath to utter what is like thee.
There’s no more faith in thee,
than in a stewed prune.
michael jarmer 
I read the subtle sub-text flowing just beneath the rocky surface of this prolonged Shakespearean epithet, like a subterranean river of orange-juice or perhaps like a dusting of Cheeto-powder upon the peak of Greatness:
(Wherein one may glimpse the finest poet, statesman and philosopher since Pericles and Thomas Jefferson . . . yup, I hear you loud and clear. Great and entertaining read BTW👍)