BARD RECORDS

Tag: Single

  • The Sacred Cow

    The Sacred Cow



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    A public service should be judged by how well it serves the public.
    Not by how loudly we’re expected to worship it.

    The Sacred Cow attacks Britain’s habit of treating the NHS less like a healthcare system and more like a national religion. RebelliousBard rejects the idea that admiration for hardworking doctors and nurses should make the institution itself immune from criticism. Waiting lists, bureaucracy, political priorities and failing access cannot be answered forever with another appeal to sentiment. The public pays for the NHS, depends upon it when something goes wrong, and has every right to ask whether the system they are repeatedly told to cherish is actually delivering for them.

    The Sacred Cow



    ► RebelliousBard • The Sacred Cow • Please Sir, Can I have Some More?
    FOR THE RECORD

    The NHS Church our national religion
    Clap for carers now clap for the silence

    Sunday sermon on the news again says everything is fine
    Monday morning tells a different truth but they call that just design
    Waitlists shrink on paper charts patients vanish from the board
    Empty rooms look very healthy If you never look at wards
    The congregation keeps on clapping for a system out of breath
    Every miracle’s a statistic every delay a quiet death
    The altar’s built on paperwork the scripture’s made of forms
    And every broken promise gets rebranded as the norm

    We’re told it’s free We’re told it’s fair
    We’re told the truth is somewhere
    Floating safely in the air

    NHS Church bow your head Trust the figures not the bed
    NHS Church say amen hope you’re seen by them someday
    Clap for carers clap for pain Clap while nothing really changes
    NHS Church sacred name While the waiting list rearranges
    NHS Church don’t complain Faith is easier than facing it
    NHS Church hold the line while the system eats its own design

    White coats now the holy robes doctors turned to priests
    Policies like sacred texts while pressure never ceases
    Puberty blockers handed out in trials dressed as care
    A new commandment in the system but no one’s allowed to stare

    Foreign workers fill the rota while locals wait in queues
    They call it managed pressure you call it what you choose
    Free at point of use they chant it like scripture through the halls
    But nothing feels that free when the waiting system stalls
    And every question asked too loudly gets labelled out of line
    So silence becomes tradition and compliance feels divine

    Don’t question the cathedral don’t challenge what you see
    Just trust the growing altar of bureaucracy and plea

    NHS Church bow your head trust the figures not the bed
    NHS Church say amen hope you’re seen by them someday
    Clap for carers clap for pain clap while nothing really changes
    NHS Church sacred name while the waiting list rearranges
    NHS Church don’t complain faith is easier than facing it
    NHS Church hold the line while the system eats its own design

    Don’t tell me this is perfect don’t tell me it’s all right
    Don’t tell me every failure is something out of sight
    We see the empty corridors we see the endless wait
    We see decisions made above us then called complicated state
    You can’t call it untouchable and immune from any blame
    When people suffer quietly inside a broken frame

    NHS Church bow your head trust the figures not the bed
    NHS Church say amen how many wait until the end?
    Clap for carers clap for pain clap while everything collapses
    NHS Church sacred name built on promises and ashes
    NHS Church don’t complain truth gets buried in the branding
    NHS Church hold the line while reality stops landing
    NHS Church bow your head but nobody’s being saved
    NHS Church say amen to a system gone mislaid

    The NHS Church bow your head don’t ask questions just wait your turn

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    The Sacred Cow was not prompted by one NHS scandal. It grew from frustration with the status the institution itself has acquired in British political culture: celebrated, defended and sometimes treated as though questioning its performance amounts to attacking the people who work inside it. The song rejects that emotional sleight of hand. Nurses and doctors can work extraordinarily hard inside a system that is still failing, and gratitude towards them does not settle questions about waiting times, bureaucracy, spending or who the system prioritises. For RebelliousBard, the NHS is not a church and criticism is not heresy. It is a publicly funded healthcare system, and it should be judged by what the public receives from it.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • Fellow Veteran

    Fellow Veteran



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    Some titles are earned through experience.
    They shouldn’t become campaign accessories.

    Fellow Veteran is an angry response to the casual use of military service as political currency. Drawing on RebelliousBard’s own years in uniform, the song contrasts the reverence afforded to the word “veteran” in public rhetoric with what it sees as the far less comfortable reality faced by former servicemen once the speeches, photographs and campaign appearances are over.

    Fellow Veteran



    ► RebelliousBard • Fellow Veteran • Please Sir, Can I have Some More?
    FOR THE RECORD

    Another day… another photo op
    Another “fellow veteran” in the spotlight

    They dilute the word till it don’t mean a thing
    Reserve weekend warrior suddenly one of the lads in the firing line
    Nine years I gave them, three in the Troubles up north
    Never once called myself a veteran going back and forth
    But now every weekend soldier gets the hero treatment
    While the uniform’s honour gets sold for cheap political rent

    They wear the title like a fancy costume pass
    While real service gets dragged through the mud and the grass

    Fellow veteran, my fucking arse
    Cheapening the word like it’s nothing but farce
    We gave real years, real blood, real nights
    While you lot turn service into soundbites
    Fellow veteran? Spare me the lie
    Some of us actually served… and some just learned how to cry

    Meanwhile real veterans sleep rough on the street
    While illegals get hotels with four-star sheets
    The government hunts down old soldiers for sins long ago
    Charging them for war crimes from decades ago
    But the new breed gets parades and a pat on the back
    While the ones who actually bled get thrown on the scrap

    Fellow veteran, my fucking arse

    I did nine years. Three in the Troubles, clear as day
    Never asked for medals or a pat on the back
    But watching this circus makes my stomach turn
    Cheapening the uniform just to chase a few more votes in return

    Fellow veteran, my fucking arse
    Wearing the title like a cheap costume pass
    We gave real years, real blood, real nights
    While you lot turn service into soundbites
    Fellow veteran? Spare me the lie
    Some of us actually served
    And some just learned how to cry

    Fellow veteran
    Fellow veteran
    Some of us actually served

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    Fellow Veteran was written after a Reform UK campaign appearance involving former SAS soldier Ant Middleton and a local plumber who had served as a part-time reservist. When the reservist was presented as a “fellow veteran”, the phrase struck a particularly personal nerve. RebelliousBard had served nine years in the military, including three in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, and had never regarded that service as something to be casually turned into political currency. The incident became the starting point for a song about what the word “veteran” should mean, who gets to wear it, and the uncomfortable contrast between celebrating military service when it suits a campaign and the treatment some former servicemen receive once their usefulness as political imagery has passed.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • Roots Run Deep

    Roots Run Deep



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    Britain wasn’t a blank page
    waiting for somebody to write on it.

    Roots Run Deep rejects the increasingly familiar description of Britain as little more than a succession of arrivals. Beneath the convenient slogans is an ancient native history, stretching through generations of people, places, names and ancestry that cannot simply be edited out of the national story. The song argues that recognising those roots should require neither apology nor permission, and that a country capable of celebrating every identity except its own has forgotten something fundamental about itself.

    Fellow Veteran



    ► RebelliousBard • Roots Run Deep • Please Sir, Can I have Some More?
    FOR THE RECORD

    They keep telling us Britain’s just a hotel on the shore
    A blank page for whoever washes up

    Built by migrants, they say with a knowing smile
    Romans, Saxons, waves across every mile
    But the land remembers every bone in the clay
    Ancient names carved in stone that refuse to fade away
    Celtic roots running centuries deep
    Now dismissed like a story we’re no longer allowed to keep

    Talking heads rewrite the tale so clean and neat
    While the foundations crumble beneath our feet

    Roots run deep, but they’re desperate to bury the past
    Celtic Britons were here long before the latest cast
    Not a blank canvas, not just another phase
    This island has memory they’re frantic to erase
    Roots run deep, in the blood, in the stone
    While they celebrate the new and mock our own
    This is home, not a footnote in their grand design
    Stand your ground… while there’s still time

    Cameron called it “great because” with polished ease
    Blair stitched a fabric without the original weave
    London’s mayor says it belongs to everyone now
    Funny how the natives are told to take a bow
    Praise every new arrival, scorn the ancient core
    Then act surprised when the cracks begin to show

    History becomes dangerous when the numbers climb high
    Memory labelled toxic in these modern times

    Roots run deep, no more rewriting the past
    Celtic Britons were here first, and that truth will last
    Not replaced, not ashamed, not a relic to discard
    This land has memory, and it’s weary, weary and scarred
    Roots run deep… hear the whisper in the stone
    Before the Britain we knew is completely overthrown

    Roots run deep… roots run deep
    This is home
    Don’t let it sleep
    History remembers

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    Roots Run Deep was not written in response to one particular news story. It came from the continuing argument in Britain, and increasingly across Europe, over native identity, mass migration and who can claim a meaningful historical connection to the country they call home. RebelliousBard rejects the idea that centuries of migration make Britain a blank canvas with no native people or inheritance worth defending. The song was written because that history matters, and because treating attachment to it as something suspicious, outdated or shameful does not make it disappear.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • Diverse Country(Side)

    Diverse Country(Side)



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    Integration used to mean joining a country.
    When did it start meaning changing it for you?

    Diverse Country(Side) takes aim at what RebelliousBard sees as a profoundly one-sided version of integration: established customs repeatedly altered, renamed or restricted to accommodate people who arrived with cultures and beliefs of their own. From pubs and dogs to Christmas, schools and the countryside itself, the song’s argument is deliberately uncompromising. If living in Britain requires Britain to become less British in order to accommodate you, perhaps Britain was never the country you wanted to live in.

    Diverse Country(Side)



    ► RebelliousBard • Diverse Country(Side) • Please Sir, Can I have Some More?
    FOR THE RECORD

    Welcome to the new British countryside
    Where everything changes… but only in one direction

    They’re making the countryside diverse, y’know
    Planting flags from afar, watching the old ways go
    Dogs on leads? Better ban them quick
    Some folks don’t like them, so we all take the hit
    Pubs with pints and proper laughter in the air
    Now suddenly “problematic”, better not go there
    We twist our traditions, bend them till they snap
    While others keep theirs intact, no compromise, no crap

    One-way integration, the game is crystal clear
    We bend over backwards, year after fucking year

    Oh we change for you, sacrifice it all
    In our own fucking land we take the fall
    You arrive and we roll out the red carpet wide
    Pay the price while we smile and swallow our pride
    Islam won’t fit? That’s what they quietly say
    But it’s us who keep folding every single day
    One-way street, this integration game
    The West keeps bowing… what a pathetic shame

    Countryside hikes now scattered with prayer mats laid
    No more bacon sarnies in the summer shade
    Festivals toned down, the wild cheer restrained
    Culture clash? Best make ourselves fade
    Schools teaching tolerance, but only one direction
    Our own history quietly erased from the lesson
    We fund the new mosques, light up foreign nights
    While village churches slowly lose their lights

    Oh we change for you, sacrifice it all

    Burqas in the village pool, halal in the schools
    While our own traditions get treated like fools
    Holidays muted, no more Christmas cheer
    We give up our ways, year after year
    Time to wake up before it’s too late
    Reclaim what’s ours before it seals our fate

    Oh we change for you, sacrifice it all
    In the land our fathers built we take the fall
    You come as guests but we treat you like kings
    While the old country fades on broken wings
    One-way street, this integration game
    The West keeps bowing… what a fucking shame
    Diverse countryside… what the hell have we done?
    The old ways are dying… under the midday sun

    Diverse countryside
    We change for you
    Every single time
    What have we done?

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    Diverse Country(Side) grew from recurring stories and public arguments about diversity reaching into increasingly ordinary parts of British life, including claims that the countryside itself is insufficiently diverse or inclusive. Around that sit the smaller controversies that accumulated into the song: changing familiar terminology in the name of inclusion, objections to dogs, alcohol and other established customs, and the expectation that British traditions should continually adapt around different religious or cultural sensitivities. RebelliousBard’s position is simple: integration should involve adapting to the country you chose to make your home, not demanding that the country continually dismantle its own customs to accommodate you.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • I Don’t Think You Have, Mate

    I Don’t Think You Have, Mate



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    What happens when the people asking for protection
    stop believing it will be applied equally?

    I Don’t Think You Have, Mate takes aim at the perception of two-tier policing in Britain, moving through protests, public disorder, speech and violent crime to question whether political sensitivity has begun to influence who receives scrutiny, sympathy and protection. Its title turns one brief exchange into the song’s refrain: a statement of disbelief becoming an accusation about trust in the institutions expected to enforce the law.

    I Don't Think You Have, Mate



    ► RebelliousBard • I Don’t Think You Have, Mate • Please Sir, Can I have Some More?
    FOR THE RECORD

    Flags in the street, but only the wrong ones get snatched
    Lads on the corner, they turn the other cheek
    While grannies get raided for a mean tweet
    “Community cohesion” that’s the brief

    One side throws bricks, gets a polite chat
    Other side waves a banner, riot van’s on the mat
    Stabbings in the park, but swift only on the chat
    Priorities twisted like a bureaucrat’s knot

    They kneel for the cause when the cameras roll
    But a kid on the ground? Just another patrol

    “I don’t think you have, mate” as the blood hits the floor
    “I’ve been stabbed” , “Nah, you’re fine, settle the score.”
    Handcuffs on the victim while the killer stands tall
    Two-tier justice, watching Britain fall

    “I don’t think you have, mate”, the words that kill
    Protect the narrative, ignore the spill
    From Southport to the streets, the pattern’s clear
    Don’t think you have rights… not if you’re from here

    Nowak on the pavement, bleeding out slow
    Told ’em straight up, but they already know
    Who to believe when the script’s been sold
    Racial abuse claim better safe than bold

    Rudakubana flowers? Nah, the real blooms of grief
    Ignored reports, hushed whispers, no relief
    Grooming gangs whisper while the papers sleep
    But a tweet gone viral? Full SWAT team

    “I don’t think you have, mate” as the blood hits the floor
    “I’ve been stabbed” – “Nah, you’re fine, settle the score.”
    Handcuffs on the victim while the killer stands tall
    Two-tier justice, watching Britain fall

    “I don’t think you have, mate” the words that kill
    Protect the narrative, ignore the spill
    From Southport to the streets, the pattern’s clear
    Don’t think you have rights… not if you’re from here

    One rule for the favoured, one for the rest
    “Far-right” label sticks to your chest
    While the real trouble hides behind the vest
    Of diversity quotas and fear of the press

    How many more Nowaks before they confess?
    The two tiers are cracking under the stress

    “I don’t think you have, mate…”
    “I don’t think you have…”
    Don’t think you have justice today

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    The song was prompted by the case of Henry Nowak. After Nowak said that he had been stabbed while being detained by police, an officer responded, “I don’t think you have, mate.” That exchange became the title and central refrain of the song, and a starting point for its wider anger about policing, institutional judgement and the perception of unequal treatment under the law.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • Low White Light

    Low White Light



    Lisa Coles

    Sometimes being present
    does not require being heard.

    Low White Light finds Lisa Coles moving quietly through a world that never quite stops talking. Rather than competing with the noise around her, she finds comfort in restraint, accepting that a life does not need to be loud, certain or fully understood to leave some evidence that it was lived.

    Low White Light



    ► Lisa Coles • Low White Light • Low White Light
    THOUGHTS, MOSTLY

    Streetlights hum like they know my name
    Windows blink but never say the same
    I walk home slow, just to feel the night
    Every thought dimmed down to low white light

    There’s a comfort in the quiet noise
    In broken beats and half-made choices

    I don’t need to be loud to stay
    I don’t need to be right to remain
    If I disappear into the sound
    Promise I was here, somehow

    Coffee rings on a borrowed desk
    Old regrets in a foreign text
    Everyone’s talking, no one’s near
    Words fall flat when they hit the air

    There’s a rhythm in holding back
    In letting moments slip through cracks

    I don’t need to be loud to stay
    I don’t need to be right to remain
    If I disappear into the sound
    Promise I was here, somehow

    Static breath, the night exhales
    I lean into what never tells

    Low White Light Lisa Coles
  • Inside The Sound

    Inside The Sound



    Lisa Coles

    There is strength in knowing
    when not to move.

    Inside the Sound is about composure without withdrawal. Lisa Coles finds control not by escaping the noise around her, but by choosing what deserves a reaction and what can simply pass by, holding her ground without needing to make a performance of it.

    Inside The Sound



    ► Lisa Coles • Inside The Sound • Low White Light
    THOUGHTS, MOSTLY

    Streetlight glare on polished steel
    I test the weight of what I feel
    Slow inhale, I hold it tight
    No need to turn it into light

    There’s a power in staying still
    In bending noise to shape my will

    I don’t need to raise my voice
    Silence is a sharper choice
    If I stand inside the sound
    I stay steady, I stay ground

    Neon flickers on my skin
    Let the outside chatter spin
    Measured steps across the floor
    I don’t chase it anymore

    There’s a rhythm in control
    In holding centre, keeping whole

    I don’t need to raise my voice
    Silence is a sharper choice
    If I stand inside the sound
    I stay steady, I stay ground

    Let it press against my frame
    I won’t fracture for a name
    No retreat and no display
    Just the pulse beneath the day

    I don’t need to raise my voice
    Silence is a sharper choice
    If I stand inside the sound
    I stay steady, I stay ground

    Low and clear, I hold my line
    Close and calm, completely mine

    Low White Light Lisa Coles
  • Edges Of Myself

    Edges Of Myself



    Lisa Coles

    Changing does not always mean
    becoming someone else.

    Edges of Myself finds Lisa Coles quietly reconsidering the boundaries she has built around herself. There is no dramatic reinvention or sudden revelation, just the gradual recognition that some old defences can be loosened without losing the person underneath.

    Edges Of Myself



    ► Lisa Coles • Edges Of Myself • Low White Light
    THOUGHTS, MOSTLY

    I map the edges of my tone
    I mark the spaces I call home
    Every pause I leave between
    Says more than what I mean

    There’s a pattern in restraint
    In every truth I almost paint

    I watch myself from just outside
    A quiet shift I let it slide
    If I loosen what I defend
    Who am I beneath the bend

    I weigh the shape of every word
    Hold it back before it’s heard
    Static thoughts that realign
    Shift the edges of my mind

    There’s a rhythm in delay
    In what I choose not to say

    I watch myself from just outside
    A quiet shift I let it slide
    If I loosen what I defend
    Who am I beneath the bend

    Peel the layers slow and light
    Trace the outline in the night
    No collapse, no grand reveal
    Just the way I start to feel

    I watch myself from just outside
    A steadier pulse I let it guide
    If I soften my defence
    I begin again, again

    Breath in time, pulse aligned
    Leave the noise, keep the spine

    Low White Light Lisa Coles