It doesn't matter if the door is open,
And that window too, for those fumes flow backwards too.
Into your childs lungs,
He's got so much ahead,
That smoke might leave him dead.
An unappealing sight, cigarette bums laid out left and right.
Burns on the door,
And ash on the floor.
The smell that carries,
Sticking to those clothes,
A quick wash will do,
It's ashame, they were new.
Or prehaps when you carried me in your womb, the smoke around was too much you had to consume, might be why I bare this shadow upon my lung.
But you did not tell them to stop.
Forgetting are we?
Let me remind you....
