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