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
Who will not let me sleep?
No, not her, she has long since left
For some place very deep.

Then is it some Jew-hating slime
With nothing better than
To torture me for all this time,
Is it some wicked man?

No, it is not some Mosleyite
Or neo-Nazi swine,
They know not, care not where you lie,
The laughter is all mine.

Who are you then, are you a Jew?
A Jew is what I be.
Then if you truly are a Jew,
Why do you torture me?

And why can you not let me sleep?
Because while I draw breath,
I will continue to mistreat
Your accidental death.

The Guardian folk know itís muck,
And so does the JC,
But they donít give a flying fuck,
For they both succour me.

With every passing year, boy,
More and sicker grows the fable,
I lie to/laugh at Yid and Goy:
My name is Gerry Gable.

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