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Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful 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 put before the king? The king was in the 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 down came a blackbird, and bit her on the nose. |
