Ballad of the Progressive Revelator
He is screaming from his soapbox again.
His voice carries heavily through the air,
like a cloud of sulfur, soot, and disrepute.
He is old and he is fuming,
and he must do what old folks
do best, other than croak.
He must yell at the lost souls
of the newest generation
of degenerates and sinners
who will all surely burn in hell,
who will die writhing in agony,
and none of whom give even half a ****.
He may not even know the source of his
vitriol, but goddamn it, its there,
and he is going to spew it everywhere.
These are not opinions. There will be no discussion.
Our own soapboxes will remain unused.
Our politics all silent and subdued.
We do not want to make a scene.
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