Isn't it Funny How as the Years Extend So Too Does the Distance You Are Required to Stand From the Office When Smoking

Across the road, at the park

On the steps, downwind

In the quadrangle, with other tragics

In the office bar, with other livewires

Anywhere on your floor, two packs a day

At your desk, straight into your bosses face, making him cough and choke and cause spittle to gather in the corner's of his mouth, as he waves his hand in front of his face trying to fan the cloud away, even while you are unleashing another sunblotting mushroom cloud, until he turns away and takes whatever overdue report he wanted amended back to his desk, back to his office, closes his door, and in the future learns a less confrontational approach, learns his lesson.