It's easy to catch crooks in South Ferry and you're the bandit that forgot to runaway.
Since I won't, the docks will say farewell.  In the way that docks do, sound like an ear to a shell.

You're on due course.
Due course.
There is no place to strive for anymore.
The ship's destination is the ocean floor.
I sunk you at sea.  Purposefully.
You're going on a journey.

Ship deports, there's no bye-waving white handkerchiefs.
No black and white photos, no pillbox hats, part of a 1940's myth.
The deadpan sky says in his best poker voice:
"he who is shipped to sea doesn't have a choice."

You're on due course.
(due course)
You're on due course.
There is no place to strive for anymore.
The ship's destination is the ocean floor.
I sunk you at sea.  Purposefully.
You're going on a journey.

No fog lifted, no fog horn blues.
No one knew that blue could be induced.

Straightening sails become a pinprick on a flat horizon.
And the lapping waves marked time cuz the sun didn't seem to be rising.
The sailor moon says:
"well, maybe someday soon catastrophe won't have to be induced."

You're on due course.  (due course)
You're on due course.
There is no place to strive for anymore.
Your ship's destination is the ocean floor.
I'll sink you at sea.  Purposefully.
You're going on a journey.