Imagine you're sitting on a park bench and an old tramp sits down beside you. (I was reminded earlier of something my mother witnessed in a bus station. This was my first thought on hearing the tale as a teenager.)
His clothes are filthy, his hair is lank and matted, the occasional flea leaps from his collar, what few teeth remain in his mouth are an equal mix of black and yellow, he smells worse than a fishmonger's waste bin, and his greasy beard is liberally spattered with vomit. Suddenly he grips his chest and falls back unconscious. Would you give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Be honest.
My answer (printed backwards so you can't cheat.)
suoicsnocnu ckab llaf mih ees ot hguone gnol deyats evah t'ndluow I