Baking pies and cakes all day,
Putting shots of rye away.
Slashed open is one large pie;
Inside it what do they spy?
Birds that sing and start to fly.
Twenty-four baked in that pie.

What a dainty dish to place
In front of the regal face.
In his counting house he makes
Tolls of all the dough he takes.
Bread and honey the queen eyes.
Twenty-four baked in that pie.

In the garden, the maid keeps
Hanging clothes, but then she weeps
When a bird swoops to filet
Her nose and takes it away.
To that schnozz she waves "bye-bye."
Twenty-four baked in that pie.