Six men trapped by happenstance in dark and bitter cold,
Each possessed a stick of wood or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,
For of the faces around the fire, he noticed one was black.
The next man, looking across the way, saw one not of his church,
And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third man dressed 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 just sat back and thought of wealth he had in store,
And out of keep he had earned from the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight.
All he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of the forlorn group did nothing but for gain,
Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
The logs held firm in death's still hands, was proof of human sin.
But they didn't die from the cold without--they died from the cold within.