Youth's Follies

I can't drink washtub bourbon any more.
I've tried, lord knows, but it just won't go down.
When I was drinking with my friends downtown
We used to stop outside the liquor store
And quaff the stuff we made ourselves (before
We had the money we have now): deep brown,
Disgusting, and familiar. You could drown
In it and disappear, far from the shore.

But I can't drink it now, unhappily.
I'm wealthy, but somehow unsatisfied
By all I can afford. If I implied
The drink is better — well, of course, I'm free
To choose my poison now, but you can see
How life grows pale, as youth's follies subside.