Ben Folds
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark,
theres an awkward young shadow who waits in the hall.
Yeah, hes cleared all his things and hes put them in boxes;
things that remind him that life has been good.
Twenty-five years, hes worked at the paper,
the mans here to take him downstairs;

and "Im 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,
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 dont change anything
you get off someone else can get on

and "Im sorry, Mr. Jones, its time"

wJohn 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 doesnt look right.
Yeah, and all of these bastards have taken his place,
hes forgotten but not yet gone.

and "Im sorry, Mr. Jones...
and "Im sorry, Mr. Jones...
and "Im sorry, Mr. Jones, its time"

Ben Folds: "John Mcrae of Cake, yall"