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 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.