I ain't marching anymore. Phil Ochs.

 Only the tired hunger to rest. I ain't marching anywhere. Fast.
We are all going die one day. But all the other days we will not.
How about today. Which day is it. 
An' where ar' me old panties. an' their old contents. 
(Lost foreva'.)

But, baby, I aint marching. How could I, with my old knee. How could I write anything of any importance at all. It's just not in me. In my pants, yes. But not so much in me. And how 'bout today, which day is it?  Hello there, welcome. Leave your troubled trousers outside, please. They are ugly. Ugly as drunk.