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 suns 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 though?
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 though?
I could sure use a hand on my shoulder now

Cause when fedelity runs low
that there's the moment when you choose
In the life of things you love, some you keep, some you lose