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.
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
And all of her neighbors moved away; And none of her friends would come to play, And all of her neighbors moved away; And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout
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
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk, and crusts of pie, Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Blobs of gooey bubble gum, Blobs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from old bologna,
Grisly bits of beefy roast. The garbage rolled on down the halls, It raised the roof, it broke the walls,
Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans, and tangerines, Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones, prune pits, peach pits, orange peels, Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.It filled the can, it covered the floor,
Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas and rotten peas,
not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceiling:
her parents would scream and shout,She simply would
Cook the yams and spice the hams, And though
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans
Would not take the garbage out.
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout