I was a boy when I heard three red words a thousand Frenchmen died in the streets for:
Liberty,
Equality,
Fraternity—I asked why men die for words.
I was older; men with mustaches, sideburns, lilacs, told me the high golden words are:
Mother,
Home, and Heaven—other older men with face decorations said:
God,
Duty,
Immortality —they sang these threes slow from deep lungs.
Years ticked off their say-so on the great clocks of doom and damnation, soup, and nuts: meteors flashed their say-so: and out of great Russia came three dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die for:
Bread,
Peace,
Land.
And I met a marine of the U.
S.
A., a leatherneck with a girl on his knee for a memory in ports circling the earth and he said:
Tell me how to say three things and I always get by—gimme a plate of ham and eggs—how much—and—do you love me, kid?
