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Sing a Song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Baked in a pie.
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When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing,
Was not that a dainty dish,
To set before the king?
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The king was in his
counting-house,
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.
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The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes,
There came a little blackbird,
And snapped off her nose.
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