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 bullsh** 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
Yeah! You're a styling queen and an alley cat
Too many chocolates keep a fat man fat
You're a pain in the a**, 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 b**h, '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
Ah Don't bust my chops, baby, don't bust my chops
Alright