The Cold Within
Six humans trapped in happenstance
In the dark 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 woman held hers back
For of the faces around the fire
She noticed one was black
The second man, looking across the way
Saw not one of his church
And he just 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 should his log be put to use
To warm the idol 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 died out of sight
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white
The last man in this forlorn group
Did naught except for gain
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game
Six logs gripped tight by death's still hands
Was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without
They died from the cold within
