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   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   I can always tell when you're in your room      Don't bust my chops   Baby, don't bust my chops   Don't bust my chops   Baby, don't bust my chops, ah      Don't bust my chops   Baby, don't bust my chops   Don't bust my chops   Baby, don't bust my chops      Don't bust my chops   Baby, don't bust my chops   Don't bust my chops   Yeah, don't bust my chops, alright