Six human trapped by happenstance
In black and bitter cold
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story’s told.
Their dying in need of logs,
The first woman held hers back.
For of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next man looking cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch
The third man sat in tattered clothes;
He gave his coat a hitch.
Why his log should 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
And the last man of this forlorn group
Did naught except or gain.
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
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