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A song was spun of silver sixpence, a pocket lined with golden rye,
A score of four and twenty blackbirds, beneath a pastry crust did lie.
The moment that the pie was opened, their sudden symphony took wing,
Now was that not a dish of wonder to present before the king?
The king sat in his counting house, his golden treasury to measure,
While in her parlour, sweet with leisure, the queen consumed her honeyed pleasure.
The scullery maid was in the garden, hanging linen in straight rows,
When down swooped one relentless blackbird to bestow a final, cruel, and snipping blow!
So ends the tale of pie and palace, of a queen with treat so fine,
A king who counted all his riches, and a maid who lost what once was mine.
The birds that sang a baked beginning in a pastry, dark and deep,
Flew from their crust to close the story with a violence meant to keep.
