Lydia Lunch - Hot Tip lyrics

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 who*e 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 motherf**er'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 ba*tard 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