Friday, April 8, 2011

"Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout" by Shel Silverstein

My mother was quite creative with her punishments.  Once I slammed the door in her face (yes, I know shame on me).  When I returned home from school that day my door was gone.  I could have it back when I paid for it.  $50 is a lot of money for a ten year old but I never again slammed the door in her face.  When I would forget to take out the garbage I had to write the poem “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Snout” by Shel Silverstein.  Eventually I had the poem memorized and was able to quickly write down the words.  I thought I had my mother beat.  She then changed the consequence.  Now instead of writing the poem I had to recite it to my friends.  This was pure fear for a middle school boy.

I suppose I should have all sorts of ill feelings towards this piece.  But truly, how could you?  Not only is it a funny and creative story it also is a cautionary tale to all neglectful children.  Every time I had to write or recite this piece I would always picture our garbage piling up and spreading across the country.  Once I even wrote my own version.  I replaced Sarah’s garbage with my own family’s garbage.   This poem is one we all can relate to, old and young.  It is a fun yet cautionary tale of what can happen when you fail the simplest of responsibilities.

I have included below a copy of the poem as well as a reading by Tori Amos.  I love how her voice captures the fun and imagination of this piece. 


Sarah Cynthia Sylvia 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 piled up to the ceiling:
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,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans, and tangerines,
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast.
The garbage rolled on down the halls,
It raised the roof, it broke the walls,
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,
Rotting 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 finally it touched the sky,
And none of her friends would come to play,
And all of her neighbors moved away;
And finally, Sarah 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 too late
But children, remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out. 

1 comment:

  1. I feel this poem would have an impact on the young reader. As I read I a rthymic sound occured, I loved it! Those poems with that rthymic sound are the ones that you remember forever.

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