Tuesday, December 30, 2008


Six men were trapped by circumstance in bleak and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told.
The dying fire was in need of logs, but the first man held his back,
Because looking at the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black.

The second man saw not one of his own local church...
And he couldn't bring himself to give the first stick of birch.
The poor man sat in tattered clothes and gave his coat a hitch.
Why should he give up his log to warm the idle rich?

The rich man sat and thought of all the wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned from the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face spoke revenge and the fire passed from his sight,
Because he saw in his stick of wood a chance to spite the white.

The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
Giving only to those who gave to him was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in death's still hands was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from cold without... they died from the cold within.

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