Текст песни 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
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.
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