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Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark |
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There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall |
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He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes |
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Things that remind him that life has been good |
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Twenty-five years |
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He's worked at the paper |
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A man's here |
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To take him downstairs |
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And I'm sorry |
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Mr. Jones, it's time |
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There was no party and there were no songs |
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'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started |
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And noone is left here that knows his first name |
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And life barrels on like a runaway train |
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Where the passengers change |
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They don't change anything |
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You get off, someone else can get on |
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And I'm sorry |
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Mr. Jones, it's time |
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Streetlight shines through the shades |
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Casting lines on the floor and lines on his face |
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He reflects on the day |
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Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement |
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Projecting some slides onto a plain white |
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Canvas and traces it, fills in the spaces |
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He turns off the slides and it doesn't look right |
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Yeah and all of these bastards |
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Have taken his place |
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He's forgotten but not yet gone |
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And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones |
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And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones |
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And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones |
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It's time |
