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,
Oh wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?

Call this a gig? A sixpence for my trouble?

They sure know how to burst a singer's bubble...

I'm not complaining, mind, I'd never knock it,

not while this fifth of rye is in my pocket.

And what's that pie they're serving from the oven?

It's full of crows, all pushin' hard and shovin',

I'm thinking this might be a don't-do venue,

with strange and crowded pies upon the menu.

That pie is raw, it needs to cook and boil,

especially to serve up to a Royal,

the King is waiting for his special dinner,

it needs to be delicious, and a winner.

They're serving it. with strawberries and creaming,

My song is drowned - two dozen blackbirds screaming.