Sing a song of sixpence,A pocketful of rye,The lover's in the gardenAnd battle's in the sky.The banker's in the cityGetting off his gold;Oh isn't it a pityThe rye can't be sold.
The queen is drinking sherryAnd dancing to a band;A crowd may well feel merryThat it does not understand.
The banker turns his gold aboutBut that won't sell the rye,Starve and grow cold without,And ask the reason whyThe guns are in the garden,And battle's in the sky.
