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 so someone else can get on

And “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, it’s time.” 

I’m sitting at work, listening to Ben Folds, and feeling some sadness & some hope for all the journalists who got an “I’m sorry, it’s time” this year.

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