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 down came a blackbird
⁠And snapped off her nose.