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    Fred sits alone
    at his desk in the dark
    theres an akward young shadow
    that waits in the hall

    hes cleared all his things
    and hes put them in boxes
    things that remind him
    that life has been good

    25 years hes worked at the paper
    a mans here to take him downstairs
    And I'm sorry Mr. Jones
    Its time

    There was no party
    and there were no songs
    cause todays just a day
    like the day that he started

    theres no one thats 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
    Its time

    Streetlights shine through the shades
    casting lines on the floor
    like the 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

    ya and all of these bastards
    have taken his place
    hes forgotten but no yet gone
    and I'm sorry Mr. Jones
    and I'm sorry Mr. Jones
    and I'm sorry Mr. Jones
    Its time

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