Classic Poem

Often I visit the little barber shop,
And watch the white clad barbers
Shave in turn the row of dirty, bearded men,
Until they leave the place, smiling, clean and fresh,
And then I wish I were a barber sent by God,
Shaving men's rusty souls with steel tongued words,
Until they shone like polished, flawless gold
As when they left His hands.