Their dying fire in need of logs,
    The first woman held hers back
    For on 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 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 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 for gain.
    Giving only to those who gave
    Was how he played the game.

    The logs held tight in death's still hands
    Was proof of human sin.
    They didn't die from the cold without,
    They died from the cold within.

Author: James Patrick Kinney