They do not look like Long John Silver,

or Blackbeard, or Calico Jack,

or talk like Al Capone with a cigar,

or mumble like Brando’s Corleone.

They may not leap on trains

like Jesse James or walk down

dusty streets to rob the bank

then gallop out of town—

instead they fly their jets

for an island lunch or drink champagne

to celebrate the bonus they received

when their firm went belly up

and their stock holders took it on the chin.

They’re suave, genteel, serve caviar

for snacks and sail their yachts

on blue green water.

They take their wives to the opera

and their girlfriends to their fifth floor suite.

They do not swagger down the street

or call their fees and interest rates extortion.

They do not think they’re crooks

when they make a deal you can’t refuse.

So here we are, barely holding on,

listening to our leaders while these gentlemen,

who do not look like pirates or gangsters

sit with their feet up on their desks,

thumbs on their vests,

knowing they’re too big to fail,

drink seltzer with a splash of lemon

and wait for their oyster on the half shell.