When my working days are done, and my axe is hung to dry,
Don't dress me up in my Sunday bests—I never wore them much.
Just bury me in my Field Pants, the ones that wouldn't die,
Cut from that Okayama selvedge twill, so winsome to the touch.
They've knelt on forest floors and tramped many a trail.
They've crouched in the campfire light, while coffee came to boil.
The rivets held, the seams stayed true, when lesser pants would fail, They're the one good thing that'll see you through, whatever may uncoil.
To hell with those fancy funeral duds! They're a mortal's stiff attire—
Just give me my faded Field Pants, and then I'll bid you a good night.
'Cause there are few things I covet more, and even less that I require.
My Sunday bests are Best Made—and that suits me just right.
|