Those legs of which scarlet encase,
Doest make my heart run quicker pace,
The sign of great true gentlemen,
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’
The ridges are of the mountains red,
The dents of valleys and ravines,
These trousers are of the countryside,
These cords, great men, be seen.
Red cotton velvet embraced,
the nap like silk upon our face,
Ribbed like grosgrain, corded like ottoman,
These are the trousers of gentlemen.
Dieu et mon pantalon rouge,
Around my legs; oh so rude,
Pleasure, lust and craving yearning,
Only for those brides discerning.
Good Sir, why wear red corduroys?
My friend, why wear red cords?
“Because they are the best” I say,
There’s no need to be a bore.