Her mother said beware of boys in bands,
And certainly don't let them write you songs,
For though they'll 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.
And though her mother has a point I might resent the implication
That every boy who plays guitar plays women like Gene Simmons.

Four thousand six hundred photographs
Stuck into a scrapbook beneath your bed;
Four thousand five hundred and ninety nine 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 kissed,
Deep down you're scared there's one or two you might have missed.

Oh Chaim Weitz, wherefore art thou?
Does your mother know who you are now?

No that I can point the 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 into cold air in the smallest hours to leave,
And in the pockets of my jacket kept my last fidelities:

A navy coin and a broken plastic compass someone gave me
That can't find north any more, 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, well some you keep, and some you lose.