Lyrics:

fred sits alone at his desk in the darkthere's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hallhe has packed all his thingsand he's put them in boxesthings that remind him that life has been goodtwenty five years he's worked at the papera man's here to take him downstairsand i'm sorry mr jones, it's timethere was no party and there were no songscause today's just a day like the day that he startedand no one is left here that knows his first nameyeah, and life barrels on like a runaway trainwhere the passengers changethey don't change anythingyou get offsomeone else can get onand i'm sorry mr jones, it's timethe streetlight it shines through the hazecasting lines on the floorand lines on his facehe reflects on the day...fred gets his paints out and goes to the basementprojecting some slides onto a plain white canvasand traces itfills in the spaceshe turns off the slidesand it doesn't look rightyeah, and all of these bastards have taken his placehe's forgotten but not yet goneand i'm sorry mr jonesand i'm sorry mr jonesand i'm sorry mr jones, it's time