Six humans trapped by happenstanceIn black 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 backFor on the faces around the fire,She noticed one was black.
The next man looking cross the waySaw one not of his church,And couldn't bring himself to giveThe 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 useTo warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thoughtOf the wealth he had in store.And how to keep what he had earnedFrom the lazy poor.
The black man's face bespoke revengeAs the fire passed from his sight,For all he saw in his stick of woodWas a chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn groupDid naught except for gain.Giving only to those who gaveWas how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death's still handsWas proof of human sin.They didn't die from the cold without,They died from the cold within