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