Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark,
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall.
He has cleared all his things and has put them in boxes,
Things that remind him that life has been good.
Twenty-five years he has worked at the paper.
A man is here to take him downstairs.
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones,
It's time.
There was no party and there were no songs
'Cause today is just a day like the day that he started.
No one is left here that knows his first name,
and life barrels on like a runaway train.
Where the passengers change, they don't change anything.
You get off, someone else can get on.
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones,
It's time.
The street light 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 doesn't look right.
Yah, and all of these bastards have taken his place.
He's forgotten, but not yet gone.
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones.
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones.
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones.
It's time.

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS