Fred Jones Pt. 2

Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He has 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
A 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
No one is left here who knows his first name
And life barrels off like a runaway train

Where the passenegers change
They don't change anything
You get off, someone else can get on
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time

The streetlight it 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