Don't Bust My Chops

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
Yeah

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
Aah

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

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