In Which I Further Whip At Least One Possibly Ex-Horse

O, Bernie Madoff, Magrathean git,
Do you prove that mankind may yet be taught?
Your ponsi-scheme is dead, and thus your wit
Rewarded amply now that you are caught
And sentenced. Yea, like your forebears of old,
You shall sit undisturbed in a dank hole
Until th'economy revives. Grow mold
At peace there in jail, no chance of parole
For one hundred and fifty years. To build
To-order worlds sucked galaxies quite dry,
A feat not for the just or the unskilled.
Fake dividends don't orbit through the sky
But do as much harm when you make enough.
Enjoy your prison time; you've got the stuff.