Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocketful of rye,

The lover’s in the garden

And battle’s in the sky.

The banker’s in the city

Getting off his gold;

Oh isn’t it a pity

The rye can’t be sold.

The queen is drinking sherry

And dancing to a band;

A crowd may well feel merry

That it does not understand.

The banker turns his gold about

But that won’t sell the rye,

Starve and grow cold without,

And ask the reason why

The guns are in the garden,

And battle’s in the sky.