Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd
the pots and
the pans,
Candy the yams and
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
, potato peelings,
Brown
, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour
cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It
the window and blocked the door
With bacon
and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice
cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy
of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
bits of beefy roasts. . .
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It
the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey
gum,
Cellophane from
baloney,
Rubbery
macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy
, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and
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
across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an
fate,
That I cannot now
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!
