It reminds me of those awful rhymes we used to have chanted to us, that I now have to bite back when I find myself launching into a jolly song for my GC. I suppose they're just lodged in our subconscious.
Maggiemaybe is no good, chop her up for firewood, when she's dead, boil her head, and make it into gingerbread.
Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman, be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head. Chipper, chopper...
And down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.
I think I've already traumatised DGS2 with the one about knocking the weasel off the table with a stick.