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
and 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
and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of
ice cream cones,
Prune pits,
peach pits,
orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of
cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts
and withered greens,
Soggy beans,
and 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,
and crusts of pie,
Rotting melons,
dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed
with lemon custard,
Cold French fries
and 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.