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