Her mother said beware of boys in bands And certainly don't let them write you songs While they'll come to you on bended knee, and kiss your pretty hand 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 4,600 photographs stuck into a scrapbook beneath your bed 4,599 broken hearts and one more your can't get out of your head While you swear you can't remember every pair of lips you've kissed Deep down you're scared there's one or two you might have 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 I've fallen hard in love in motels and by sunrise lost her name I have crept out in the cold air and the smallest hours to lead And in the pockets of my jacket kept my last fidelities 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 When fidelity runs low, that there's the moment when you choose In life the things you love, there's some you keep and some you lose