Wherefore Art Thou Gene Simmons

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
4,600 photographs, stuck into a scrapbook beneath your bed
4,599 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 have 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
Because when fidelity runs low that there's the moment when you choose
In the life of things you love, some you keep, some you lose