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
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
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops ah

Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops alright