Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark

There's an awkward young shadow who waits in the hall

Yeah, he's cleared 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

The 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 who knows his first name

And life barrels on like a runaway train

Where the passengers change, but they don't change anything

You get off someone else can get on And "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time" Street light 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"