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Fred Jones, Part 2
*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"
*Ben Folds: "John Mcrae of Cake, y'all"*
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*Ben Folds: "John Mcrae of Cake, y'all"*
and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time"
and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones...
and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones...
he's forgotten but not yet gone.
Yeah, and all of these bastards have taken his place,
He turns off the slides, and it doesn't look right.
and traces it, fills in the spaces.
onto a plain white canvas
projecting some slides
Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
he reflects on the day.
casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
Street light shines through the shades,
*w/John Mcrae*
and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time"
you get off someone else can get on
where the passengers change, but they don't change anything
and life barrels on like a runaway train
and no one is left here who knows his first name,
'cause today's just a day like the day that he started,
There was no party, and there were no songs,
and "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time"
the man's here to take him downstairs;
Twenty-five years, he's worked at the paper,
things that remind him that life has been good.
Yeah, he's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes;
there's an awkward young shadow who waits in the hall.
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark,
*Ben Folds*
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| FFred JJones, PPart 22 |
| red ones, art |
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| cFred kJones, 0Part 32 |
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| tred nones, Paart 1 |
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