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