Wherefore Art Thou Gene Simmons? - Frank Turner

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

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 thou?

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 thou?

I could sure use a hand on my shoulder now

Cause when fidelity runs low, then there’s the moment when you choose

In the life of things you love, some you keep, some you lose