I needed a distraction from the current RIA events so I learned a new song. Come on everybody, sing along with Flick.
Sahra 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 ceilings, 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, prone pits peach pits orange peel, gloppy clumps of cold oat meal, pizza crust and withered greens, soggy beans and tangerines, crust of black burned buttered toast, gristly bits of beefy roast. The garbage rolled on down the hall it raised the roof it broke the walls. I mean greasy napkins cookie crumbs, blobs of gooey bubble gum, cellophane from old baloney, rubber blubbry macaroni, peanut butter caked and dry, curdles of milk and crusts of pie, ridy melons dried up mustard, eggs shells 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 the neighbors moved away. And finally Sahra Cynthia Sylvia 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 Sahra met an awful fate, that I cannot right now relate, because the hour is much too late. But children remember Sylvia Stout and always take the garbage out.
There now, don't you feel better?
