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
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