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 ends of ice cream cones
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel
Gluppy glumps of cold oatmeal
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
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