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Альбом
Текст песни
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
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