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.