fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
there's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
he has packed 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 no one is left here that knows his first name
yeah, 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 streetlight it shines through the haze
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
