A mother said, "Beware of boys in bands
And certainly don't let them write you songs
For they will come to you on bended knee and kiss your pretty hands
When the singing's done and the sun's up, they'll be gone"
While her mother has a point, I might resent the implication
That every boy who plays guitar plays women like Gene Simmons
4600 photographs, stuck into a scrapbook beneath your bed
4599 broken hearts, and one more you can't get out of your head
And though you swear you can remember every pair of lips you've kissed
Deep down you're scared there's one or two you might've missed
Oh, Chaim Witz, wherefore art thou?
Does your mother know who you are now?
Not that I can point a finger, I've been a sinner just the same
Fallen hard in love in motels
And by sunrise lost their name
And I have crept out into cold air in the smallest hours to leave
And in the pockets of my jacket I've kept my last infidelities
A navy coin and a broken plastic compass that someone gave me
That can't find north anymore, just like me
Oh, Gene Simmons, wherefore art thou?
I could sure use a hand on my shoulder now
Cause when fidelity runs low, then there's the moment when you choose
In the life of things you love, some you keep, some you lose