Sots' Social Club

One sot says to his fellow sot:
"Why don't they love us? Another shot!"
The second then says to sot the first:
"Damn our vile and unquenchable thirst!"
They are joined by comrades at the bar,
Where they cavil and crool and spit and spar,
While--huddled and hunched--they commiserate
Over their ungodly, sorry state.
Seeking salvation from the past
(A soggy salvation that cannot last),
They toast opportunities just within reach
That sluice through their fingers like waves on a beach.
When you're a sot, any vodka will do,
Any whisky or wine or hop-brew, too;
Any salve to reduce the incessant pain
From one's blithering, blathering bubble-brain.
Pity them not, that sodden crew
That gathers in taverns to blubber and chew;
They prefer dark dreams to sobriety
And the stern demands of society.
Even though one spell of evaporation
Would vastly improve their derelict nation
And raise their chins above their chests,
They'd rather keep braying their booze-anapests.