Potshot...

A holler testing the mic's lungs,
The voice climbing its last rungs,
How could I not react? 
At least, I had a pact with tact.
Yes, I jibe before I will,
And never seem to get my fill;
A stray sound bite, a visual,
Anything glaringly unusual,
My tongue yearns to sting,
Add to the moment some zing.
As long as it's out of earshot,
What's amiss with a potshot?