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

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