I’m walking along a road

that never ends when I see

Jamie Dimon in his doorway.

Smug and self-satisfied

he thinks he’s got it made,

admiring his fleet of Mercedes

in front of his 3 car garage.

With a satanic smile, he says:

“You don’t look familiar.

What country are you from?”

I reply: “Afghanistan,” to bust his balls.

I shout:

“As a greedy disciple of Ayn Rand,

you will die, as a punishment

for your evil deeds.”

A priest appears to a administer last rites.

In the shadows of his garage

I see him down on his knees,

pleading: “Forgive me Father,

for I have sinned.

When the priest tries to wave

that diabolic symbol of torture

over my face, I run for my life,

and awaken from my dream.