Those mutilated claws
They tore her apart
Ripped her away from my firm grasp
Without considering my heart

Her beautiful soul no longer visits me
In the smoke-filled kitchen every Christmas Eve
She is nowhere to be found in the heat of July
When the fireworks burst through the black glass of the sky
If I ask for her warm, perfect tamales
She is not there to remind me to ask “please”

So when you think about accepting that tobacco-filled disease
Realize that your future granddaughter won’t be pleased
Because when your addiction succeeds
You won’t be around to fill her needs
And when you can’t bake away her sorrows
Your cigarette won’t be worth her painful tomorrows.