Her dirty fingers are magnets to the slender Marlboros. Her ashtray, full and black as tall as a child's sandcastle. When she sighs, she exhales and the ashes fly spreading across the carpet like a wildfire of bees attacking its prey without mercy. She thinks she's in Heaven-- She thinks she's killing time-- She thinks there ain't a worry in the world-- When she's got her cigarettes. Oh, Mama, Mama Do you love your cigarettes more than me? Oh, Mama, Mama It's not only *you* you're killing.