Blackbird

Sing a song of sixpence
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked into a pie,

But what we didn't know
About the feast fit for a king
The birds follow the Queen and obey
And she summons them when she sings

She takes care of the blackbirds,
While eating bread and honey,
The king sits in the counting house,
Counting all his money.

She plots and plans against him,
With the blackbirds at her side,
The foul and dirty deeds she brews,
She feels she has to hide.

The maid is in the backyard,
Hanging out the clothes.
She hears the plot so the Queen commands
And the birds peck off her nose.

Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Baked into a pie.