Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,

Four and twenty sweet plums baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened the plums were soft within,

Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before my kin?

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My dad was in the bathroom finishing his shave,

My mum was at the front door giving friends a wave,

My gran was in the garden sitting in the sun,

But they all came for plum pie with yellow custard on.

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