Physical

We speak in a language that the hips only know.
I'm a lock-cool operator with a heart of stone,
One touch on the dance floor and it's overthrown.
I don't need a reason and I don't need a rhyme,
Just your hand in my hand and the pump of the time.
Ooh, I can't fight it, I can't stay cool,
Your body's the rhythm and I'm the fool.
Physical, physical, move it, move it.
Physical, physical.