Each year, we close our blog with a holiday poem inspired by Clement Clarke Moore’s A Visit from St. Nicholas. This season, with markets at record highs but public trust in institutions on shakier ground, it seemed fitting to summon the ghost of J. P. Morgan himself. In “The Ghost of Trust,” Morgan visits on a December night in New York to remind us that even in an age of algorithms, skyscrapers, and artificial intelligence, the most important capital a firm can hold is integrity.

Happy Holidays from Mercer Capital’s RIA Team!

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’Twas the week before Christmas, I’d taken a flight,
For meetings in Midtown that stretched into night;
My carry-on nestled by my hotel bed,
While visions of rate cuts still danced in my head.

The tickers were gleaming, the headlines were bright,
Yet markets that shimmered felt strangely contrite;
The Fed had gone quiet, the shutdown a drag,
While gold, ever stubborn, flew high as a flag.

I scrolled through my Bloomberg, all weary and worn,
With charts that were bullish, but morals forlorn;
The rich rode the K’s upper arm to delight,
While Main Street kept sinking away out of sight.

The city still hummed under lights cold and clear,
But voters had chosen a new path this year;
And Mamdani’s win stirred the boardroom with dread,
While traders sought refuge in spreadsheets instead.

Then out past my window there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;
The skyline was flashing, the heavens aflame,
When out from the thunder his majesty came.

His eyes—how they sparkled with arrogant grace,
His cigar left a halo that ghosted the space;
A herald of finance, as loud as an organ—
The Gilded Age spirit of John Pierpont Morgan.

He gazed through the window toward Park Avenue,
Where ‘tower of glass split the storm-clouded view;
Its girders and spires all gleamed in the rain—
“My House rebuilt,” said the ghost with disdain.

“Six billion in steel for a temple to trade,
But tell me, good sir, on what trust is it laid?
Do workers still gather, or labor remote?
I sense from your silence that memos now gloat.”

I stammered that Dimon had summoned them back,
Restoring some order the Zoom age did lack;
“A fine call!” he thundered, “for commerce requires
The spark of a handshake to kindle its fires.”

He paced to the window and pointed below,
Where Ubers like beetles crawled through mud and snow;
“Your world hums on circuits, all chatter and code—
You’ve built iron railroads without any road.”

“In my day,” he said, “steel and steam ruled the land,
And power was nothing a will couldn’t stand;
I tamed those great engines when greed ran amok—
Who governs your algos once they’re out of luck?”

“Each age has its mania, each boom has its rail,
From iron to silicon, greed tips the scale;
But when vision outruns what balance can show,
The crash always follows, as cold after snow.

“Just look at your city, divided in two—
The penthouse grows richer, the boroughs make do;
This letter-shaped ‘recovery’ flatters the few,
While half of your workers ask what they should do.

“So Mamdani rises, a sign from the street,
That patience wears thin when success feels elite;
You bankers are blinded by lives of refinement—
Society begs for financial alignment.”

I nodded in silence, unsure what to say,
His gaze like a ledger that priced my dismay;
“You measure your worth by returns on a chart,
But the yield that you seek is the honor of heart.”

He turned from the window, his shadow grown tall,
The smoke from his cigar ghostlike on the wall;
“Your money’s gone virtual, your values opaque—
You’ve minted new myths that your trust cannot make.

“Gold keeps its luster when kingdoms collapse,
While crypto’s just code dressed in digital wraps;
The wise man seeks substance that time can’t erode,
Not riches that flicker through circuits of code.”

He drew from his vest pocket something of weight—
A watch made of silver, engraved ‘Nineteen Eight’;
“Each tick is a promise, each hour a vow,
But promises matter far less to you now.”

He looked to his tower, then back into me,
“You build higher walls, but less equity;
Your balance sheets dazzle, but trust is the key—
It’s faith and not EBIT that keeps men free.”

A thunderclap sounded; he faded from view,
His outline dissolving in dawn’s silver hue;
The skyline grew quiet, my heart strangely light—
His echo still whispered, “Keep character bright.”

I woke to the daylight on Central Park’s trees,
The taxis below like a swarm of gold bees;
My coffee went cold as I typed through the blight,
“When trust is your capital, all will be right.”

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Closing Note

As we wrap up another year, we’re grateful for our clients, colleagues, and friends who’ve trusted us with their work and their confidence. May your holidays be filled with peace, perspective, and maybe a little less market volatility. From all of us at Mercer Capital—thank you for reading, and we wish you a prosperous and well-balanced New Year.