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.