Spread double,
  My deal was no trouble
Until naked as I was selling
My meds took over the killing.
To diddle, the diddle.
To short the shilling.
Funny, I shouted “Geronimo”.
       This bond of mine.
       This heart of thine.

Outright here under shadow.

    As ‘Trade, Bust, Credit’.
                I am still just selling

Even my maths are barren
              But my balls are golden.

  And in currency
   The skies themselves
     Are what I call E-V-E-N
       This flies to me
           In the wars of algorithm.
I worship how fine it all is –

A moving average, uncorrelated,
   To new levels of
My personal risk premium in the entire system.
   I am to it and it is to me.

An identity invoked by everything that ever spoke -
   These prophets have vowels that translate
            To new levels of

Rogue trade gone postal
   With all the answers and just one query:
        On a street named desire/

             An address at which to be merry.