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