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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 counting-house, 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 up came a blackbird And snapt off her nose. |