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 unknown
       Contributed by Bill Fields