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