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 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 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, baby, don't bust my chops AlrightTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
