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!


-DORA