Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark

There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall

He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes

Things that remind him that life has been good



Twenty-five years

He's worked at the paper

A man's 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's just a day like the day that he started

And noone 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



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 doesn't look right



Yeah 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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