Bob Chester, you cut my hair from when it cost a quarter, until late 1967.
I trusted you, never thought ill of you,
and then you showed your true colors,
but I was held in check
by all that was considered right and good and correct,
and in my case, other foolish thoughts and feelings.

And then there was the oh, most holy of men lcoally –
the Reverend Thomas G Swales,
minister of Boulevard Methodist Church,
a holy man, who knew full well upon which side of his bread
was buttered….
and who played the game of solitious piety quite well.
He had been forewarnded of the reason for my visit to his office,
with the love of my life,
and being so warned by her mother,
and by others,
of my reputed worthless being,
he played his part with a serious and even an overbearing
bit of the love of the common people,
and took his part in the bitter and emotional trainwreck
that would stay with me for more than four decades.

You, Mister Chester, barely 46 years old,
felt you had the right to play your form of god
to a young couple who only wanted to please everyone
so we went about as cautioned, as they wished.
And you proceded to shit on our shoes in response.

Mister Swales? You have not been forgotten, either;
your version of what God intended you to do with your position,
that of minister to those who would turn to you for guidance,
as was your supposed duty in life;
you plastic-faced liar.
Man Of God?
No, my friend,
you were hardly that.
Oh, you had everyone fooled, quite well,
but you traded your honour and your dignity
for the thank you you received from those who did not agree
with the plans and dreams of a young couple who trusted you.

I pray, if there is a God in Heaven, and if He is a good and true God,
that you find yourself rolling and just a-popping and a-snapping
in the hottest fires of Hell, forever,
for the way in which you cast away your right to be called a Man Of God.
I know you for that which you were –
you were but a “yes man” for those you feared,
those grand pillars of the church,
and you feared upsetting them more,
for your livlihood,
than serving the lives of two young people who were in love.
You were not a Man Of God –
you were a Whore to those who told you what to do,
and you did it.
And in so doing, you earned your damn 30 pieces of silver.
You bastard.
Likely the two of you,
the barber and the preacher,
may share space at the fires of Hell,
that I so earnestly pray was your reward for your good intentions –
intentions that only served you and your own greedy needs
to be honored and fawned upon by those of the community.
Neither of you, at heart, was a good man.
Both of you were lower than the snake
in The Garden that touted the value of the apple.
I will never forget either of you,
I will never forgive either of you,
and I will always remember the lessons you taught me.

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