(Ry Cooder & Jim Keltner)
Lonesome outerspace invader blasting through the night
Tuning in the soul music on the satellite
All that low-down funky rhythm makes him jump and shout
Just got to find that ghetto planet that everyone's talkin' about
Tuning in the local scene on the radio
The D.J. on the radar screen is telling him where to go
The funky fever's getting louder, sounds just like a soul encounter
Cruisin' for some bar-b-que right up Central Avenue
And he's got a little dance he wants to do
He pulls up to a big night club in his UFO
Gets right in with all the folks out on the big dance floor
It really stops the action, everybody's mystified
To see that little step he's got as he goes glidin' by
Now, he ain't doin' the Gigolo 'cause he ain't got no hips
Looks like the Funky Chicken man, 'cept he ain't got no hips
Those shiny metal threads he's wearin' really got some class
I'd say he was doin' the Bomp, but I can't seem to find his ass
Now, everybody fall in love
He's reet, he's neat, he can't be beat
You shake your shimmy like I shake mine
