Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing;
Was not that a dainty dish
To set before the king?

The King was in his countinghouse,
Counting out his money;

The Queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes;
When along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.

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