"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; Wasn’t that a dainty dish, To set before the king?The king was in his counting-house, Counting out his money; The queen was in the parlour, Eating bread and honey.The maid was in the garden, Hanging out the clothes. There came a little blackbird, And snapped off her nose."