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 1 or 2
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 theres the moment
when you choose
In the life of things
you love some
you keep some you lose