(Rhythm is both the song's manacle and it's demonic charge. It is the original breath, it is the whisper of unremitting demand. "What do you still want of me?", says the singer. "What do you think you can still draw from my lips?" Exact presence that no fantasy can represent. Purveyor of the oldest secret, alive with the blood that boils again, and is pulsing where the rhythm is torn apart. How your singer's blood is incensed at the depth of sound. Lacerations echo in the mouth's open erotic sky where dance together the lost frenzies of rhythm and an imploring immobility. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Grace Jones. Jones the Rhythm.)
Slave!
Slave to the rhythm
Dance to the rhythm
Axe to wood in ancient times
Man machine, production line
The fire burns, with heartbeats strong
Sing out loud, the chain gang song
Never stop the action
Keep it up, keep it up
Never stop the action
Keep it up, keep it up
Slave to the rhythm
Dance to the rhythm,
The rhythm... master... master...
Never stop the action, keep it up
Never stop the action
Keep it up, keep it up.
Slave to the rhythm, work to the rhythm,
Dance to the rhythm, live to the rhythm.
Slave to the rhythm,
Dance to the rhythm, live to the rhythm,
Slave to the rhythm, work... to the rhythm,
To the rhythm, work to the rhythm, to the rhythm.
Slave, slave,
To the rhythm, to the rhythm, to the rhythm.
(Grace)
Oh that's weird...
(Grace Jones, welcome)
Thank you Paul. And if you're wondering what's wrong with my voice, I just choked on my saliva. So...
(Now obviously you're in the Bond movie.)