The Sober Man

When the sober man comes to visit, filled with malice and hate,
there are no cares for another spirit, just I will them bait.
With his desert language; humped in jealousy, he clicks buttons,
never does he visit the drunkard with praise and sweet bourbons.

He-they only come to see him when typing is all astray,
perhaps they fear his liquid mind when no ale chases the day.
Experts in their expert world of poetry; sublime stanzas,
stuck in formal ways of creativity, in closed boxes.

'Minor talent' is thrown across the ether with laughing glee,
but know this poets?! At least I'm individuality!
Whiskey and wine may shine the paths I follow with fine humour,
I only get crazy when drunk, what's your excuse to batter?