"Al cuerpo hay que darle lo que el cuerpo pida", goes a venezuelan saying.
Of course, we always face the question of the origin of our urges. Are they natural or learned?

Whatever they are it is obviously torturing to withhold our body urges (the catholic church somehow can't get it, or so they pretend).
Besides the perfect craft that Quill has already pointed out, I likeyour usual word-play and the ambiguity and paradox contained in your work.

A poem about saving for later, about drinking and aging, which puts side by side the elixir ill-advised and the body urged to have it, is a poem about a fundamental human paradox, which is usually compared with wine aging, but which in practice does not match reality.

Unlike wine or whiskey, we do not age that gratiously, with more flavor, or full-bodied. On the contrary, even if we age more wisely, our physical body decays and if the mental capacities are intact by then, I can only imagine the level of frustration for times past and negated "pleasuresome supplies".

The poem accurately describe what witholding pleasure must feel like: "cruelly parching agony", just like the thirsty surrounded by forbiden water.
I think we all have something we long for, or feel thirsty of; and the idea of not quenching this thirst and the arrival of death unannounced must haunt each of us.