Lyrics Hot Tip - Lydia Lunch

There must be ninety two degrees in the shade
You want a hot tip
You want a hot tip on dead jockey
He ain't coming home tonight
He's going nowhere tonight

He popped a deuce on the number two
Horse went down in the fourth
Had to shoot the horse
"Why shoot the horse", I said
Shoot the jockey
Jockey, shoot the jockey

He could grift with the worst of them
Petty hustle on a two bit dance hall whore
She looked a lot like me but
That wasn't me, that wasn't me

I said, I think you owe me something
He said sister, you got the wrong man
I spit right up in that motherfucker's face
And said, every man is the wrong man
Every man is the wrong man

Wrong man, wrong man, wrong man
Wrong man, wrong man, wrong man
Right place, right time
Right time

Ha ain't coming home tonight
Last time I saw that bastard
I think it was just his heador his shoes
Somewhere down near the bayou st. John
He was talking all kinds of nonsense about some king of
Hoodooo, voodoo, hoodooo, voodoo
To me it's all just cooccoo cooca choo

You see I'm one hundred percent
Born and bred Santeria
I said, I think you owe me something
I think you owe me something
He said he had the nerve to say
I had the wrong man

Wrong man, wrong man, wrong man
Wrong man, wrong man, wrong man
Every man is the wrong man

He ain't going nowhere tonight
And don't need feed me none of this
Voodoo-hoodoo-voodoo
You ain't going nowhere tonight
You ain't coming home with me tonight