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
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
there were no songs'
Cause today's just a day like
the day that he started
Noone has 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