The Blue Flannel Shirt

I am eager once more to feel easy,

I'm weary of thinking of dress;

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 would n'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.