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.