Oh, Sarah Sylvia Cynthia 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 pulled up to the ceilings,
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.
Prunes pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal.

Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines.
Crusts of black burned b___ered toast,
Grisly 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,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum.
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni.
Peanut b___er caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie.
Rotting melons, dried up mustard.
Egg shells 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 the neighbors moved away.
And finally Sarah Sylvia 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 to late.
But children remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out.

See also:
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111.18
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