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 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

And there were no songs

Cause today's just the day 

Like the day that he started

No one is left here

That knows his first name

And life barrells 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, it 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