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Recorded at McCabe's Guitar Shop, Santa Monica, CA - 30 July 1988

Into To One Long Pair Of Eyes
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  "Go," said the enchantress, "and see ye the one known as Clint. But be
warned, his medicine is potent; few have entered his cave, and even less
have returned. So take with you this talisman."

  She plucked it from her ample chest and thrust into his sweaty palm a
tiny upright mexican bean. He pocketed it and crawled across the mountains
for twenty eight days.  When his labours were finished he fumbled for the
bean but could find it no more. He crawled back another twenty seven and a
half days to where he'd come from and saw the enchantress standing bemused
by a series of petrol pumps.

  "You forgot the bean, didn't you," said the enchantress.

  But he was unable to speak, his tounge swollen and parched with his
labours over the crucifying desert had grown so pulpy in his mouth it was
as if he had two sausages and a severe dental case and couldn't speak at
all.

  "Seek ye the one known as Clint, but be warned; few have entered his cave,
and even fewer returned.  Take you this talisman, one small mexican bean,
and remember: go."

  For twenty eight days he crossed the desert.  His eyes glistening with
the parched waters of love, his mouth snarling for the occasional plant and
jack rabbit that danced into the uterine thing of his part.  Nobody could
stop him now.

  "See ye the one known as, Leo?  Jeff?  Dennis?"

  For twenty seven days he crawled back across the desert.  His tounge so
swollen with pain he could barely lick the occaisional spike from the
cactus to deeply needed nutrition from way below the ground.  Eventually he
crawled over the ridge, and there standing on the petrol pumps was the
enchantress.

  "Forgot his name didn't you?"

  He was unable to speak.

  "Go, seek ye the one known as Clint, but rember few have entered his cave
and even fewer returned.  Take you this, take you this, prawn, onion,
bicycle cap."

  Now they were really stuck.

Intro To Veins Of The Queen
---------------------------

  Yeah.  Well, as you know, the important thing is not to express yourself.
And I imagine that if you were all here last night, hopefully you wouldn't
tell me because you would be too well brought up.  But, obviously coming as
I do from England we try to avoid saying what we mean or what we feel. 
Well, the first is confusing, but the second is a straight up; cause we
don't feel anything at all but often mean things.

  I used to mean things till I was about 14 then I stopped.  Which must be
twenty-one years ago now.  I've been meaningless for twenty-one years. 
It's drifting in the void.  I think I stopped meaning things even before
the first issue of Rolling Stone came out.

  But if you look at that it doesn't mean anything now, but it did once in
the days of the revolution.  And I suppose even the revolution was quick.
It's happening all around.  Not here.  But it happened up in San Francisco
for six months, and it happened up in England somewhere else for six
months.  And very quick it was all over and done with, but there's lots of
books about it now and things like that, in case you're intrested.  You can
spend a lot of money on Rock books.

  But it just doesn't.  Hang on.  Oh, yeah.  The whole point is that,
ideally, people just don't express themselves, and this is really good. 
But the arch-non-expression, the actual key zone, the epicenter from which
non-expression stems from is in fact the Royal Family.

  The Royal Family of Great Britan was founded in 1833 by Sir William of
Turberville after a charter left by his Great Aunt Kate was washed ashore
in Shanken in the Isle of Wight in the Southeast of England.  This charter
revealed that somewhere, not too far from the center of London, there were
eight very very important, potent people who had exceptional geneological
traits and could be manipulated, at will, to rule an enormous empire.

  Britan at that stage was lagging far behind the other world powers. 
Namely Span, Jane and Urich and various other centers.  All of which with
their vast empires, their accumulation of wealth, cutlery and jewels were
getting way ahead, and the evil Emperor Clint, who dominated the whole of
the Western region, was challenged by noone.

  Even the one who sought him: For though he had truched back over the
mountains and reapproached the Enchantress, his eyes pleaded for favor. She
looked bemusedly from the petrol pump and disconnected a nozzle from her
left breast.  "Well."

  "Hassaine, senyora," he pleaded, "Please.  My swollen tounge.  One drop
will become."

  "Suck slave."  She pressed her fatal finger on the ever present nozzles
sending a sparkling jet of hot-cool glycerin onto the tounge of her begging
and pleasding hyrophant, who instantly combusted.

  Meanwhile, in 1838 the final details were drawn up for what was to become
the head of the British Empire.  Queen Victoria was nominated as the first
person out of the bottle.  She expanded from about this (small size) to
life size within five weeks and was watered. Her husband Albert, originally
a German Dauchsund, proved more difficult.  And then when he was watered
the spines on his body began to grow because of his endless trips through
the desert seeking the one known as Clint.  However, after a while they
just bashed all the spines back in.  Which is one of the main reasons the
British Royal family became so repressed.

  Society, functioning as it did then in the pre-TV era, had only such
role-models as the royal family to fall back upon, and pretty soon the
whole of our mighty cricket bat wielding empire was full of civilized (tape
gets muffled)...

  ...who'd inverted cats with spikes drilling deep down (tape gets muffled
again)...

  ...the surfaces of their yeilding bodies.

  Well, all Hell broke loose, and in no time at all you had The Beatles,
the Revolution of the Twentieth Century I told you about already if you
weren't listening, and the one known as Clint still roosting on his evil
empire.

  Meanwhile, this is a song about how you can't really approach these
sort of people, because the Queen isn't allowed to have an opinion.  So I'm
just imagining that I've been shrunk down to the size of something really
small and injected into her, about here (motions towards head) without an
anestetic, because, as you know, the brain is quite insensitive.  And the
needle goes into the middle of the brain, and I microscopically filter
through the whole thing.  And I eventually find out where the Queen is at.