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 bull%#@! brats

Cocaine stupor and anxiety attacks

Picked up the magazine, I see your face

You're nothin' boy, a !@#$ 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 $$#, 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 (*##$, '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