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
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