Fred sits alone

at his desk in the dark

theres an akward young shadow

that waits in the hall



hes cleared all his things

and hes put them in boxes

things that remind him

that life has been good



25 years hes worked at the paper

a mans here to take him downstairs

And I'm sorry Mr. Jones

Its time



There was no party

and there were no songs

cause todays just a day

like the day that he started



theres no one thats 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

Its time



Streetlights shine through the shades

casting lines on the floor

like the 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



ya and all of these bastards

have taken his place

hes forgotten but no yet gone

and I'm sorry Mr. Jones

and I'm sorry Mr. Jones

and I'm sorry Mr. Jones

Its time