This is the Sully

As fine a ship as you can sail
From Le Havre France to New York
Of a mild October
In the year of our lord 1832

Blessed be the quiet mind

Such as wielded by a Sully passenger
Named Samuel F.B Morse
The nearly famous artist coming up for air
Post years of work and study

Quiet be the weary mind
That hovers o'er the water

Grateful to be homeward borne
By true and perfect boredom
Hallowed be its namе
‘Cause

Weary be thе troubled mind
That hovers o’er the water
With its lonely sons and daughter
On the shore ahead
And on the shore behind
So much unfinished business
But there ain't a cure for distance
Save a long, long time

Tick tick ticking several decks below
In steerage next to less- considered travelers
Nothing but their fevers running wild
From bed, to bed, to bed

Quiet be the weary minds
Between the old and new world
No more to seek approval
From the loved ones wedded to the shore behind
Calling “y'all are gonna miss us
Unless you find the cure for distance"

Quiet be their weary minds

And in that instant
There it is
A ceaseless current
A boundless grid

A prayer, a potion
With form and function
To deliver us
To each other from
Each other
Racing be the blessed mind
To a future long imagined
Bright with glory, fame and fortune
It had left for dead

On the shore behind
Jedidiah are you listening
Your son has found a cure for distance

And blessed be its troubled mind
That hears the roaring of an instant
God hath wrought the cure for distance
And that cure is mine