Rogue Trade Gone Postal

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.

Leave a comment