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
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