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   No one is 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