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.