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Poem	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?
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