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 a 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, Along came a blackbird, And snipped off her nose.