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

Their dying fire in need of logs,
But the first one held it back,
Foe, of the faces round the fire,
She noticed one was black.

The next man looking 'cross the way
Saw one not bit of his church,
And could not being hitself to give
The fire his stick to birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes.
He gave his coat a hitch.
Why his log be put to use
To warm the idle rich?

The rich man just 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 bespoke revengeas the fire passed from his sight.
For all he saw in his stick of Wood
Was a chance to spite the white.

The last man of this forlorn group
Did nought expect for gain.
Giving only to those who have
Was how he played the game.

Their logs held tight in death's still hands
Was prove of human sin.
They died not die from the cold without
They died from the cold within.

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