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 b s******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",
