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...
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