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
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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, there were no songs
|
'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started
|
Noone is left here that knows his first name
|
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 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
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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
|
|
-----------------
|
Fred Jones Part 2
|
| Ben Folds |
