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