A slight, but real, absurdity is troubling my mind:
If something is in back of me, it’s fronting my behind—
Or is it backing up my front? It’s weakening my pride
That heads or tails I can’t make out, so coin flips must decide
Whether what’s aft is yet before, ahead or what’s astern,
Or I’m too turned around and backward-brained to ever learn
If what’s before my very eyes affronts my front or back;
Please, someone, sort it, or I think I’ll have a heart attack,
For hid behind this placid front, behind the back of me,
Yet also forward of my back, where, sadly, I can’t see,
This sad conundrum irritates and pesters me, alack,
For I’ve no way to know what’s going on behind my back.


