Sing a song of sixpence,
pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds,
baked in a pie.

And when the pie was opened,
the birds began to sing.
Now, isn’t 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 down came a blackbird
and pecked off her nose!

One misty, moisty morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
I met a little old man
Cloaked all in leather.

Well, he began to compliment,
And I began to grin:
“How do you do?”
And “How do you do?”
And “How do you do?”, again.

That’s all I have to say.