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 bullshit 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 ass, 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 bitch, '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