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
|
|
-----------------
|
Fred Jones, Pt 2
|
| Ben Folds Five |
