Ah, who is laughing on my grave?
November Sixty-Four
My kin interned me; though I crave
Peace, I can rest no more.
Is it that wicked French heiress
Is it some Jew-hating slime
No, it is not some Mosleyite
Who are you then, are you a Jew?
And why can you not let me sleep?
The Guardian folk know it’s muck,
With every passing year, boy,
(Acknowledgments to Thomas Hardy)
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Who will not let me sleep?
No, not her, she has long since left
For some place very deep.
With nothing better than
To torture me for all this time,
Is it some wicked man?
Or neo-Nazi swine,
They know not, care not where you lie,
The laughter is all mine.
A Jew is what I be.
Then if you truly are a Jew,
Why do you torture me?
Because while I draw breath,
I will continue to mistreat
Your accidental death.
And so does the JC,
But they don’t give a flying fuck,
For they both succour me.
More and sicker grows the fable,
I lie to/laugh at Yid and Goy:
My name is Gerry Gable.