Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
Theres an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
Hes cleared all his things and hes put them in boxes
Things that remind him: life has been good

Twenty-five years
Hes worked at the paper
A mans here to take him downstairs
And Im sorry, mr. jones
Its time

There was no party, there were no songs
cause todays just a day like the day that he started
Noone is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They dont change anything
You get off; someone else can get on

And Im sorry, mr. jones
Its time

Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day

Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesnt look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
Hes forgotten but not yet gone

And Im sorry, mr. jones
And Im sorry, mr. jones
And Im sorry, mr. jones
Its time

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