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