It's Mouse. He hides lerrrrrrve poetry inside guitars that the boyz are giving to the Layyydeees and seduces them with his louche ways and hippy hair. I have stuck to illiterate girlfriends with no musical aspirations* and so far, so good.
*and anything sentient, or at least with some of the signs of life.
"We all have flaws, and mine is being wicked." James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks 1951
bastard by name