Six humans trapped by happenstance
In damp and bitter cold
Each one possessed a stick of wood
Or so the story's told

Their dying fire in need of logs
The first woman held hers back
For on the faces around the fire
She noticed one was black

The next man looking cross the way
Saw one was not of his church
And couldn't bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch

The third one 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 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 the chance to spite the white

And the last man of this forlorn group
Did not….except for gain
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game

The logs held tight in death's still hands
Was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without
They died from the cold within