I'm sick and tired of you calling me names

I'm sick and tired of your childish games

I'm sick and tired of your bullshit brats

Cocaine stupor and anxiety attacks

Picked up the magazine, I see your face

You're nothin' boy, a goddamn waste

With the lamest fashions on your back

You're never happy, a hypochondriac

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops Yeah

You're a styling queen and an alley cat

Too many chocolates keep a fat man fat

You're a pain in the ass, and your on the loose

All I get from you is your bad attitude

Dirty mouth, it's all I can bear

Get outta here bitch, 'cause you're nowhere

Always wearin' that cheap perfume

Can always tell when you're in the room

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops Ah

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops

Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops Alright