Seven nurses trapped by 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 nurse held hers tight.
For on the faces around the fire,
Was that nurse that works at night.
The night nurse looking cross the way,
Saw one not of her shift,
And wouldn't give her stick of wood
To give the fire a lift.
The third nures noticed in the group
One that wanted to unionize,
"Why should I use my stick of wood
To warm someone I despise?"
The management nurse sat in deep thought,
(Her mind not on the fire)
Of ways to stretch this small staff
Without having to hire.
The floor nurse's face bespoke revenge
as the fire passed from sight,
For all she saw in her stick of wood
Was a chance for spite tonight.
The nurse with the BSN sat and watched
As the fire began to dim.
"My degree is more important than his
I'll put mine in after him."
The last nurse 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 how we sin.
They didn't die from the cold without,
They died from--THE COLD WITHIN.