The Mayflower dropped anchor there,
Midst rising tide on Cape Cod Bay.
All aboard had suffered their share,
During months they’d been underway.
Food was near gone, fresh water too,
Crew and passengers all distraught,
Wishing that they had kept a few
Of the English muffins they’d brought.
They launched a longboat in the sea,
And some Pilgrims ventured ashore,
While ill passengers raised the plea,
"Take us, we can’t stand any more."
A guy named Brewster steered the boat -
He was the unanimous choice,
Elected by popular vote;
For his wife had the loudest voice.
As the boat slid onto the sand,
Soft, gritty stuff, mixed with rubble,
Brewster was first leaping to land,
Twisting his foot on a pebble.
Splash! He went down right on his rump,
Musket discharging in the air.
Embarrassed, he felt like a chump,
Pulling seaweed out of his hair.
He held the little stone up high,
Weighing less than a half a pound,
Bewailing his mishap, "Oh, my,
It’s the only rock to be found."
Later, when it came to a name
For this spot where they’d come ashore,
Limping Brewster said, flushed with shame,
"Tis Plymouth Rock forevermore!"
Through centuries, tales are altered,
Tourism, the obvious force.
No one recalls Brewster faltered,
And that pebble has grown, of course.
© by Richard McCusker (firstname.lastname@example.org)