I’m heartily sick of stiff collars,
And trousers the tailor must press.
I’m eagerly waiting the glad days—
When fashion will cease to assert
What I must put on every morning—
The days of the blue flannel shirt.
I want to get out in the country
And rest by the side of the lake;
To go a few days without shaving,
And give grim old custom the shake.
A week’s growth of whiskers, I’m thinking,
At present my chin wouldn’t hurt;
And I’m yearning to don those old trousers
And loaf in that blue flannel shirt.
You can brag all you like of your fashions,
The style of your cutaway coat;
You can boast of your tailor-made raiment,
And the collar that strangles your throat;
But give me the old pair of trousers
That seem to improve with the dirt,
And let me get back to the comfort
That’s born of a blue flannel shirt.