| A mother said, «Beware of boys in bands
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| And certainly don’t let them write you songs
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| For they will come to you on bended knee and kiss your pretty hands
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| When the singing’s done and the sun’s up, they’ll be gone»
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| While her mother has a point, I might resent the implication
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| That every boy who plays guitar plays women like Gene Simmons
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| 4600 photographs, stuck into a scrapbook beneath your bed
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| 4599 broken hearts, and one more you can’t get out of your head
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| And though you swear you can remember every pair of lips you’ve kissed
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| Deep down you’re scared there’s one or two you might’ve missed
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| Oh, Chaim Witz, wherefore art thou?
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| Does your mother know who you are now?
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| Not that I can point a finger, I’ve been a sinner just the same
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| Fallen hard in love in motels
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| And by sunrise lost their name
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| And I have crept out into cold air in the smallest hours to leave
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| And in the pockets of my jacket I’ve kept my last infidelities
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| A navy coin and a broken plastic compass that someone gave me
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| That can’t find north anymore, just like me
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| Oh, Gene Simmons, wherefore art thou?
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| I could sure use a hand on my shoulder now
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| Cause when fidelity runs low, then there’s the moment when you choose
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| In the life of things you love, some you keep, some you lose |