They say Three is a number of night, the tail end of the number of darkness, 13.
It is astraddle the fence between good grades and bad
For it is known as a C, between a B and D; it is vile and mean.
It is spindly-legged and haggard and scantily clad.

When they say it the two little E's escape from your mouth and remain for an eternity
Not like older brother Four whose sound is neatly cut off by a consonant door

It is the trill of the seagulls as they swoop overhead; a shrill “three three!”

Equipped with three writhing sideways legs, a backwards capital E, written as no one writes anymore.

But we three look at each other and giggle with glee
For there isn't on earth a better number than Three
It is odd and frozen in time and opposes symmetry
The lonely R in the middle sounds like the droning of a bee

It is mighty too and uneven three for it is the number of the Moirae
They spin your thread and measure and cut it off and toy with your fates
It is the third little pig who built his house with bricks instead of sticks or hay
It is a relative of lovely Six and a third of a cat's Nine lives,
the number of many trios of powerful Greek goddesses and their wimpy mates.

But mostly it is ours to savor, ours to hate and repeat
Ours to weep and moan with, to dance in cadence with our three heartbeats
Ours to rejoice with and laugh at Two's and Four's defeat.