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Oliver Pybus “Tis the life (of privilege)”

Olly  strong feelings about MPs expenses

Olly – strong feelings about MPs expenses

Oliver Pybus, (‘Olly’), 38, of St Peter’s Road, has written a song: “Tis a Life (of Privilege)”.

I wrote it partly to express my strong feelings about the recent MPs’ expenses scandal. It’s a song about the system – a laughable system – the politicians weren’t skint and they turned down the chance to change the system many times.

People expect a better standard of behaviour from their politicians.” Olly says “It’s just a song that sprang into my head; the jolly traditional style melody symbolises the national glee at seeing the downfall of our hard-earned tax highwaymen and women.”

About four years ago, Olly used to make compilation CDs which he sold to video production companies. It was royalty-free music which he’d created in his mini studio in St Peter’s Road. “I couldn’t make much money doing it. I’m now a driver for SPAR.”
Will he release the song as a single? “I just want people to enjoy it. I hope people like it and forward it on to all their friends.”

If anyone would like a free copy of Olly’s latest song, he says they can just email him on     or they can download it from:

’Tis the Life  by Oliver Pybus

Eighty pounds for buttons, twenty pounds for bread,
I’ve flipped my home so often, I’m dizzy in the head.
If I’m coming or I’m going, it matters not to me,
It’s the life of privilege, being an MP.

My ducks are sitting pretty, on a terrace sipping Pimms.
They keep me rather busy, as I pander to their whims.
They’ve ordered double glazing, to be tinted naturally.
‘Tis the life of privilege, as a feathered friend of me.

As I wander down the high street, gathering receipts,
Claiming every penny for the things my doggie eats,
In the corner of my eye, I spot a glorious antique,
It’s the life of privilege, and one that’s hard to beat.

The roof tiles on my house, are sourced from ancient Rome,
It’s like Aladdin’s cave, as I wander round my home.
A statue of Medusa, sprinkles water at my feet,
It’s the life of privilege, that warrants this retreat.

I have a taxidermist, stuffing dolphins in my shed,
Tomorrow comes an artist – he’s due to paint them red,
and hang them in my hall, suspended ‘bove my head.
‘Tis the life of privilege; give us our daily bread.

Every time I take a breath, it’s money in the bank.
The British taxpayer is the one I have to thank,
as I claim for a photo of a rhino in the zoo.
It’s the life of privilege, and one that’s paid by YOU.

I haven’t had a pay rise for a jolly long time,
so I’m keeping my receipts for a lemonade and lime.
The mustard on my sausage is not exactly cheap.
It’s the life of privilege, and one I’m keen to keep!

I’m claiming for a cleaner and a cook and chimney sweep,
a mountaineering carabina and a moat that’s very deep.
An entourage of fellows are singing me to sleep.
It’s the life of privilege, a harvest I can reap.

Emu feathers in my pillow, whaleskin slippers on my feet,
polar bearskin dusters, wallpaper made of wheat.
If you’re not a politician, you’re a member of the fools.
‘Tis a life of privilege, and all within the rules!

I was choosing a new handle, made of gold for my rake,
the goldsmith smiled and stretched his hand out to shake.
As I thanked him for his service, the receipt it blew away.
‘Tis the life of privilege, I’m sorry for today.

That little piece of paper, blew along my garden path,
It got carried by the wind to the Daily Telegraph.
Now I’m standing here before you, with my golden handled rake.
‘Twas the life of privilege – a privileged mistake!



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