XIV beer o'clock

Oh sonnet. You're between me and my beer,
A perilous position to be in.
Priorities grow tenuous, it's clear,
I do not know which one of you will win.
I cannot quaff you as I would a draught,
You do not fill me with the same content,
And served to me you certainly are not,
By a bartender with a cute accent.
So if my handling is a little rough,
And I forget your commas, or some lines,
And you resent that you're not pruned enough,
And mumble that you're better paired with wine,
   I will ignore you when they pull my draft,
   You're not a pint of Guinness, not by half.