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