The last bastion of hope
This once great nation has left is its humour
So be it, through continued mockery
This crackpot country half full of cunts
Will finally have the last laugh
When dragged underwater
By the weight of the tumour
It formed when it fell for the fear mongering
Of the national front's new hairdo
So then what becomes of the inhabitants
Of this once unstoppable isle
When all of its exports are no longer in style?
Are you seriously still tryna kid me
That our culture will be just finе
When all that's left is nob heads morris dancing
To Sham 69?
Gob on thе ragman and rally 'round the maypole
Hijack the sound and stake your claim to it
Every card played is a statement made
And there's always a new a scapegoat to blame for it
England, my heart bleeds
Why'd you abandon me?
Yes, I abandoned you too, but we both know
I wasn't the one lied to
And I'm not scared of people
Who don't look like me, unlike you
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
The last bastion of hope
This once great nation had left was good music
But we didn't nurture it, instead choosing to ignore it
Yes, we've been trapped by the same crowd that don't like it
Unless they've heard it before
Leaving me stuck flogging my progressive dead horse
South of the border to the
So-so and so's and through and throughs and this and that's
I'm buttered breads and proud of it
Who's values flit whenever it fucking suits them
And we're supposed to let it slide
Because the press have normalised
The idea that racism is something we should humour
Yeah, the last bastion of hope this once great nation has left is to converse
In a manner that will pacify, divide, and unite the room
But no one's talking and rational thought has been forced into submission
By the medium through which all our information is now consumed
Yes, fake news
Yes, fake news, mate
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
So bold
This once great nation has left is its humour
So be it, through continued mockery
This crackpot country half full of cunts
Will finally have the last laugh
When dragged underwater
By the weight of the tumour
It formed when it fell for the fear mongering
Of the national front's new hairdo
So then what becomes of the inhabitants
Of this once unstoppable isle
When all of its exports are no longer in style?
Are you seriously still tryna kid me
That our culture will be just finе
When all that's left is nob heads morris dancing
To Sham 69?
Gob on thе ragman and rally 'round the maypole
Hijack the sound and stake your claim to it
Every card played is a statement made
And there's always a new a scapegoat to blame for it
England, my heart bleeds
Why'd you abandon me?
Yes, I abandoned you too, but we both know
I wasn't the one lied to
And I'm not scared of people
Who don't look like me, unlike you
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
The last bastion of hope
This once great nation had left was good music
But we didn't nurture it, instead choosing to ignore it
Yes, we've been trapped by the same crowd that don't like it
Unless they've heard it before
Leaving me stuck flogging my progressive dead horse
South of the border to the
So-so and so's and through and throughs and this and that's
I'm buttered breads and proud of it
Who's values flit whenever it fucking suits them
And we're supposed to let it slide
Because the press have normalised
The idea that racism is something we should humour
Yeah, the last bastion of hope this once great nation has left is to converse
In a manner that will pacify, divide, and unite the room
But no one's talking and rational thought has been forced into submission
By the medium through which all our information is now consumed
Yes, fake news
Yes, fake news, mate
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
So bold it is in its idiocy
So bound by its own stupidity
It does not realise it has already sentenced
Itself completely to death
So bold
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Note for non-Italian users: Sorry, though the interface of this website is translated into English, most commentaries and biographies are in Italian and/or in other languages like French, German, Spanish, Russian etc.
Album: The Overload
Gli Yard Act sono un quartetto di Leeds, una scheggia impazzita di quel gran botto che è il post punk britannico degli ultimi 2-3 anni. Sarcastici e dissacranti, offrono al proprio pubblico un cinico bagno di realtà rivestendolo con una abbondante dose di umorismo paradossale.
A renderli inconfondibili è soprattutto il modo di cantare di James Smith, un cantato-parlato irresistibile condito da un marcato accento dello Yorkshire. Negli episodi più riusciti della loro breve discografia le amare riflessioni esistenziali di Smith si mescolano alla perfezione con le musiche, galoppanti ma sempre composte. Dal vivo Smith aggiunge poi un atteggiamento scostante da predicatore da pub che è la ciliegina sulla torta (Marco Zanetti)
Questa Dead Horse è una canzone che critica apertamente lo stato attuale del Regno Unito, esprimendo preoccupazioni profonde riguardo alla perdita di speranza e alla mancanza di umorismo nel paese.
La crescente paura degli stranieri e la reazione alle fake news prospettano un futuro inquietante per la nazione sempre più chiusa su se stessa, che ha perso anche la buona musica, e che non fa altro che ignorare o respingere qualsiasi novità o diversità.