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 25 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 has left here that knows his first name Yeah, 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, 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 yet And all of these bastards have taken his place He's forgotten and not yet gone And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time