I´m sick and tired of you calling my 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 a magazine, I see your face
You´re nothin´ but a goddamn waste
With the lamest fashion 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

You´re a stylish queen and an alley cat
Too many chocolates, getting fat fat 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 the room

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
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