The Collecting Machine

By Franklin F. Snelson

From Far above Cayuga’s waters, to the Gulf of Mexico
From the Suwannee to the Sabine, where the muddy waters flow
From bayous and mountain brooks, to slow blackwater streams
He’s the man with a Royal plan, the Collecting Machine

The Collecting Machine, from New Orleans, travels through the land
Not a thing that swims or crawls or flies, is safe from this odd man
He’s pickin’ plants, trappin’ rats, and diggin’ up old bones
He’s grabbin’ up putrid roadkills, then takin’ it all back home

His seining feats are legend, ah, the stories they do tell
But of all the fishin’ spots he loved, there’s one remembered well 
Pearl River, Pools Bluff Sill, just south of Bogalusa
That’s where he killed exactly 132,244 Cyprinella venusta
 
And there’s the time down in Vera Cruz, when Sutt got thrown in jail
I never heard the truth of it, but it must be quite a tale
They finally did let him loose, but he didn’t get his wish
He got out’a jail, all right, but he couldn’t keep the fish

From Far above Cayuga’s waters, to the Gulf of Mexico
From the Suwannee to the Sabine, where the muddy waters flow
From bayous and mountain brooks, to slow blackwater streams
He’s the man with a Royal plan, the Collecting Machine

Hey, there’s a snake, I heard him yell, as he jumped from the movin’ car
And the time he almost sank the boat, full of alligator gar
And he danged near got us arrested, late one summer night
Shootin’ at bats with a .22, ‘round a Virgin, Utah, streetlight

We stopped one day in Alabam, at a spring near Anniston
Home of the pygmy sculpin, I thought I’d catch me some
But the man said that yesterday, the Collecting Machine came through
Hauled off every danged one of them things, and all the snails and crawfish too

There’s one thing ‘bout old Sutt, boys, I’m sure you’ll all agree
He never did things half-assed, he was perfect to a T
He’d lay them gar out nice and straight, and you need not ask me why
He had 32,493 paratypes, of edwardraneyi

Hey Sutt let’s quit, we got enough, we topped up every jar
We got bats and bones and frogs and fish fillin’ up the car
Quit, hell no, I saw one more, we can’t let nothin’ go
I won’t stop till I’ve caught every critter, from Maine to Mexico

So you best fetch up your old hound-dog and all your goldfish too
Hide your pet iguana and your talkin’ cockatoo
And keep a close eye on your children, don’t let them roam too far
Cause the Collecting Machine is on the loose, and he’ll stuff ‘em in a jar

When he dies, he’ll won’t be gone, he’s pickled pretty well
After years of soakin in formaldehyde, they won’t let him in hell
So we’ll put him in an Atlas jar, and snap the bail down tight 
Let the label read Collecting Machine, and this here’s the holotype 

From Far above Cayuga’s waters, to the Gulf of Mexico
From the Suwannee to the Sabine, where the muddy waters flow
From bayous and mountain brooks, to slow blackwater streams
He’s the man with a Royal plan, the Collecting Machine

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