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