Rose was a man
Like no other man
He had a singular way about him
That made it so hard to know him
His wife got him dressed
So he looked like the rest
But his clothes couldn’t hide that he had his
Own private side he had his
Own rituals
Like touching his toes
Every morning at six
He never would miss
His own rituals
His own rituals

Rose had a job
And he did his job well
Mr. Rose was the kind
Who would put his soul on the line
He would always
Be there at eight
And he always worked straight he would
Lend his good name to a cause
The boss and the salesmen they called him
Almost a saint
A virtual saint
Every morning at six
He never would miss
His own rituals
His own rituals

Then an Autumn day came
When the jobs were no more
And the causes he’d known
Were like the leaves that had fallen
Just like the clothes he had worn there was a
Silence outside and a coldness within
And then all he had left
Was what he had to begin he had
His own rituals
Like touching his toes
Every morning at six
He never would miss
His own rituals
His own rituals