But to be debacked , that is the worst of the lot,
Worse than beheading. And that is what we've got.
For it is better to have a head and nothing else,
Than just the Fronts without the concomitant shells.
Our nursery of Backs, all those fate would remove —
We hang in vacuo — circle in fashion's groove.
Beyond question it is our lot to be all Front,
All temporal bustle, tantamount to a stunt
To affect to run — all the wild gestures of speed —
Stock-still in fact, we stamp out Change's seed.
(From this revolution there can be no revolt —
This change to all fresh change must call a halt:
Hereby we standardize the will to progress —
It is a strictly One-way pattern of redress.)
The trickster Time cannot perform his trick,
More than the strawless Copt could make the brick,
If he has not the dead material as well
To mix in, and ferment his temporal.
Coming from Nowhere, our advance is too ideal —
Cut off from the chief ingredient of our " real",
The Universe of Absence — disconnect
With all that is not action — no longer reflect —
From the reserves we carry in our hump
We are parted. In consequence we slump . —
But all this is to be debacked . Backless we can
But achieve the status of the " stuffed shirt" man.