< > H

Sarah
Cynthia
Sylvia
Stout

Would
not
take
the
garbage
out.

She'd
wash
the
dishes
and
scrub
the
pans

Cook
the
yams
and
spice
the
hams,

And
though
her
parents
would
scream
and
shout,

She
simply
would
not
take
the
garbage
out.

And
so
it
piled
up
to
the
ceiling:

Coffee grounds,
potato peelings,
Brown bananas
rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.

It
filled
the
can,
it
covered
the
floor,

It
cracked
the
windows
and
blocked
the
door with,

bacon rinds
chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones
Prune pits,
peach pits,
orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts

withered greens,
Soggy beans,
tangerines,
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast.

The
garbage
rolled
on
down
the
halls,

It
raised
the
roof,
it
broke
the
walls,
I mean,

greasy napkins,
cookie crumbs,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk,
crusts of pie,
Rotting melons,
dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries
rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.

At
last
the
garbage
reached
so
high
That
finally
it
touched
the
sky,

And
none
of
her
friends
would
come
to
play,
And
all
of
her
neighbors
moved
away;
And
finally,
Sarah
Cynthia
Stout
Said,

"Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"

But
then,
of
course
it
was
too
late,
The
garbage
reached
across
the
state,
From
New York
to
the
Golden Gate;

And
there
in
the
garbage
she
did
hate
Poor
Sarah
met
an
awful
fate
That
I
cannot
right
now
relate
Because
the
hour
is
much
too
late

But
children,
remember
Sarah
Stout,

And always take the garbage out.