By Ben Folds
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes
Things that remind him that life has been good
For 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
There were no songs
Becuase today's just a day like the day that he started
No one is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passangers change, they don't change anything
You get off, someone else can get on
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones it's time
Streelight shines through the shade
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
He traces and fills in the spaces
He turns off the slide and it doesn't look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards are taking his place
He's forgotten but not yet gone
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones it's time