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Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! That finally it touched the sky. She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, And all the neighbors moved away, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And none of her friends would come out to play. And though her daddy would scream and shout, And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, She simply would not take the garbage out. OK, I'll take the garbage out!" And so it piled up to the ceilings: But then, of course, it was too late. . . Coffee grounds, potato peelings, The garbage reached across the state, Brown bananas, rotten peas, From New York to the Golden Gate. Chunks of sour cottage cheese. And there, in the garbage she did hate, It filled the can, it covered the floor, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, It cracked the window, it blocked the door That I cannot right now relate With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Because the hour is much too late. Drippy ends of ice cream cones, But children, remember Sarah Stout Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, And always take the Garbabge OUT!!!! Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crests and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, 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
