SCSS+garbage=bad fate.

I have really terrific kids. I know this. But they are kids just the same, and thus are on a crash course many days to make me crazy. I have one, in particular, (no birth orders) that believes heavily in the creation of trash, and that it should be seen, possibly heard. There is a trail of trash left behind this one, surrounding this one.  Bits of paper, parts of broken things, unidentifiable squashed together corporeality, rain down from this child's person. Do any of these bits ever make it to the trash without me having to ask? I cannot say.
But, when asked by Eldest last week what Shel Silverstein poem I like best, without a thought I blurted "SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUT WOULD NOT TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT". It is all in caps, because the author understands. This is not a subject for meek lower case.
This poem has been going through my head in a somewhat constant buzz for years and years. Each time I ask for an item to be thrown in the garbage, and each time I ask the child who is in charge of taking out the trash if they had/would do their job. Rarely with a follow up. This poem is what reminds me that karma always is in action, and also, when I am tempted to "go on strike" that it would be a really, really bad idea. When I was a small child, taking the trash out was my chore. I don't remember loving to do it...probably the opposite. Mostly I remember that collecting the trash inevitably involved being attacked by the cat. This made the chore a torture. Still, the circle is round.
Read on at your own risk, for if you have a child like this, the poem my offer some succor, but it also might stick in your head like an Ace of Base song.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape 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.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It 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,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts...
The garbage rolled on 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
That finally it 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 to late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!