When All Our Troubles Are Over

When all our troubles are over
I will hunt down all those who were cruel to you
I will slay them with a peacock feather
then raise them up in forgiveness with holy hands of gold
I will force them to kneel and say ten yabba-dabba-doos.

Our so-called rulers will learn
that you can crush a man's body with a sixteen-ton tank
but all the guns in the world
won't entice the nightingale to sing
and that the hyacinth and the hummingbird
are not fashioned with an iron hammer.

The Magic Tramp will graduate with honours
from the Tramp Internship
the black shadow-witch behind your curtain
will turn out to be a friendly old sycamore
swaying on the night breeze
when all our troubles are over.

The werewolf will croon to the October moon
while the little ones gather round
we will live in a stone house by a stream
in a valley of ferns
and the autumn will clothe you in russet
with a garland of green moss at your throat.

Softly spoken words will be handed out free on street corners
and candlelight will be mandatory
Van Gogh gets his ear back and a written apology
Frankenstein gets a facelift
and a pat on the arse from a pretty girl
Richard and Judy will be flattened by an immense rock
Nostradamus will be sent to the bottom of the class
and Johnny Cash will be finally crowned as a true king.

I'll be wearing a white tuxedo and a gold gipsy tooth
and I'll bring a blood-red rose for you, my dear
when all our troubles are over.