Im sick and tired of you calling me names
Im sick and tired of your childish games
Im sick and tired of your bullshit brats
Cocaine stupor and anxiety attacks
Picked up the magazine, I see your face
Youre nothin boy, a goddamn waste
With the lamest fashions on your back
Youre never happy, a hypochondriac
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Yeah!
Youre a styling queen and an alley cat
Too many chocolates keep a fat man fat
Youre a pain in the ass, and your on the (loose)
All I get from you is your bad attitude
Dirty mouth, its all I can bear
Get outta here bitch, cause youre nowhere
Always wearin that cheap perfume
Can always tell when youre in the room
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Ah
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Alright
|
