Six humans trapped by happenstance,
Their dying fire -- in need of logs,
In bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story is told.
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 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 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 face bespoke revenge,
As 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 naught except for gain
Give only to those who gave
Was how he played the game. Their logs held tight in death's still hand
Was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without,
THEY DIED FROM THE COLD WITHIN.
James Patrick Kenny
