The Poet & The Drunk

That which separates
the poet from the drunk
Is not at first reflection
What commonly is thunk

The poet must sometimes force a rhyme
To convey that which he pleas
The drunk just simply rants and raves
Thus exposing his disease

Some tell me that I cannot think
Without my lips around a drink
I cannot contradict this point
Except that sometimes I prefer a joint

Whether drunk or poet?
It’s not a question but a curse
Either way I’m doomed to die
Without a penny in my purse

Kings of noble wastelands
Do not forbid your thirsty guest
I’d like to think I’ve got to drink
I drink to feel me blessed!

I cannot hope to make distinct
The poet from his friend who drinks
despite that which you all may think
The farts from both still tend to stink

The arrow shot by both still falls
Both their bedrooms have four walls
Before they walked they learned to crawl
And if they’re boys they have two balls

So the only major difference
Between the two just seems to be
That one cannot put into words
His worldly apathy