I Sang a Song

I SANG A SONG I sang a song of sixpence And pocketed some rye Felt bad about the blackbirds Getting baked inside the pie And when the pie was opened Amazed that they could fly

To sing before a king it seems Who liked to count his money Forget about the fat old queen Filling out on bread and honey But even in my tender years It seemed more weird than funny

And then there was the parlour maid In the garden hanging clothes When down came a well-baked bird And pecked off her little nose. Jenny Wren put it back again What happened with those crows?

There’s Mary and her Little Lamb Mother Goose who had a few Old Mother Hubbard, The Duke of York The Lady who lived in a Shoe The pie man, the piper, podgy George Tom Thumb and Little Boy Blue

What were they really saying Were they trying to give us clues Sheep, out fleecing, selling wool Us round a Mulberry bush turning blue On a cold and frosty morning Learning to wash and dress for school

Atishoo Atishoo we all fell down Running rings around the Rosay While Little Miss Muffet astride her tuffet Was eating her curds and whey When Incy Wincy came down the spout And scared that poor damsel away

I often wonder what it was all about Greedy kings and fat old queens Big Bad wolves and Frogs and things With babies falling out of trees These songs we sang as children Cast their spells before our teens

So when we left the nursery Short on reasons long on rhymes The befuddling continued But different from past times No more singing songs of sixpence Imitating sleeping lions

Comes the time to knuckle down Buckle up, be somewhat meek Contain all that unfettered joy, Play a different hide and seek The fancy dress more uniform-ness Raise your hand before you speak

Seems Humpty was a really big gun Eanie Meanie ‘bout catch dem slaves Bloody Mary really was quite contrary With her torture machines and mass graves Ten little Indians in manner quite veiled Hid the slaughter of Indian braves.

We absorb it all and become what we do Depending on how you receive it The way that we dress, the laguage we speak What to do and how to achieve it “Who controls the past controls the future” Or so George Orwell perceived it

Then it happens and we bear witness To the idea he sought to portray As statues fall and flags are burned Trashing icons that don’t hold sway The past gets hidden but we still get ridden Believing we’re winning the day

For all along the Watchtower The Princes still have their view Watching as the cities burn Everything up for review Toss a few crumbs, turn down their thumbs Not to comfort but calm the milieux

The nursery songs still resonate Those rhymes became implanted The stories we were read at night Enthralled us and enchanted We drifted off into our dreams Taking those tales for granted

History’s writ with the winner’s pen That’s the reality and the convention And just as with all those nursery songs Why would there be any mention Of the massacres, theft , horrendous crimes Slaughter and subjugation

Now that we all have internet To rake and plough for answers Can a Google search really change a thing? Can we be players not just dancers? The stage was set so long before This pantomime just advances

There is so much more to those nursery rhymes when you start looking!

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