Six men trapped by circumstance in the bleak 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 one held his back.
For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one man black.
The next one sitting 'cross the way saw one not of his church
and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes and gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat band and thought of all he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the lazy poor.
And the black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire pa**ed from his sight.
All he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this group did nought except for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
Their logs frozen in their hands was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from cold without, they died from cold within.