Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark 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
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