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Ben Folds Five >>
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
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 the day
Like the day that he started
No one is left here
That knows his first name
And life barrells 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, 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
