The most progressive parents in the United States
are giving their children the most traditional names.
They force their maids to choose from Hunger Games
while they stick to their Toms and Beths and precious Kates.
Their normal nomenclature lubricates
their little brats through life, while yours? It shames
them. Paisely? Waylon? Lol. I’m James.
The well-heeled commie laughs, luxuriates
in his unearned and unfair paradox:
he calls for revolution, but he calls
his kiddies after grandma, Bible, former
kings and queens; his well-worm Birkenstocks
belie his leased Mercedes. He appalls
me: liar, hypocrite, performer!