Pilgrims, puritan, dashed on the rocks, whiskey and rocks.
Plymouth Rock, not so far from Mannahattas, by rail or Concord,
(The jet, that is.)
You hearing me?
Puritans on a pilgrimage, thus pilgrims, storm-tossed, wandering, it can’t be they are lost, though of dust, subjected to wilderness, plenty of bewilderment, and plenty of weight loss,
Go back to your chilluns of royalty lost, back to a Virgin Island, on a Branff, ‘course Virginia herself gave up to Washington, D.C. swamps.
Spam of Human Affection 
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