*Ben Folds* Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark, there's an awkward
young shadow who waits in the hall. Yeah, he's cleared all his things and
he's put them in boxes; things that remind him that life has been
good. 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, and there were no songs, 'cause
today's just a day like the day that he started, and no one is left here who
knows his first name, and life barrels on like a runaway train where the
passengers change, but they don't change anything you get off someone else
can get on
and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's
time"
*w/John Mcrae* Street light 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"