(Steel) A bunch of withered roses lie, a silhouette Caught you jumpin' in the deep end last night, but it hasn't yet. tying up your body with some rusty Number 8 and they say, Too early with run, son. Too with your run. A bunch of ockers, the local magistrate, Go down to kicking at the altar the evening's getting late, And the scene is much too busy, the prizes are so fakes, Too early your run, son, Too with your run. And you doing with that gun, son, Tell me, what you doing with gun? You don't in killing, someone's trying to kill you, You actually want answers, just the odd clue, And the timing moves to overdrive and no-one to get in touch with you, Too with your run, son, Too early your run. Next time you'll anything, you wonder if you think too much, Hoping just for anything to your senses, No-one believes in that these days, no-one's taking chances, Too early with run, son, Too early with run. And you doing with that gun, son, Tell me, what you doing with that Yeahhh...what you doing, you doing, what you doing, you doing, hey, With gun? Bunch of withered lie, Tathra by the sea, A four am hotel carpark, a memory, They're wrapping up your body, it's an charade, They're you, Too with your run, son, Too early with run. And what you with that gun, son, Tell me, what you with that gun?