Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout would not take the garbage out

She'd scour the pots and scrub the pans

Candy the yams and spice the hams

And though her daddy would scream and shout

She simply would not take the garbage out

And so, it piled up to the ceilings

Coffee grounds, potato peelings

Brown bananas, rotten peas, chunks of sour cottage cheese

That filled the can and covered the floor, cracked the window and blocked the door

With bacon rinds and chicken bones, drippy ins of ice cream cones

Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel

Gluppy glumps of cold oat meal, pizza crust and withered greens

And soggy beans and tangerines and crust of black burned buttered toast

And gristly bits of beefy roast

The garbage rolled on down the hall, it raised the roof, it broke the wall

I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs

Globs of gooey bubble gums, cellophane from green baloney, rubbery blubbery macaroni, peanut butter, caked and dry

Curdled milk and crusts of pie, moldy 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 it finally touched the sky

And all the neighbors moved away

And none of her friends would come to play

And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout said

"OK, 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