Six humans trapped by happenstance
In the black and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a piece of wood
Or so the story's told.
The dying fire in need of logs
The first Women held hers back,
For among the faces around the fire
She noticed one was black.
The second man across the way
Saw one not from his church,
And could not bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The third man sat in tattered clothes
He gave his coat a hitch,
Why should his log be put to use
To warm the idle rich?
The rich man sat back
And thought of all the wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned
From the lazy shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white.
The last one of this forlorn group
Did not accept for gain,
Giving only to those who gave
was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death's still hand
Was proof of human sin,
They did not die from the cold without
They died from the cold within.