Lyrics

Yeh man...
One shot of rum, and one sht-stained sofa later…
It’s Sam fckin’ Wham.

Sam Wham, he a menace to the seat
Drunk as hell, shttin’ in the heat
Every couch he touch ends up wrecked
Left a brown trail, no fckin’ respect

Walks in slurring, claims he’s fine
Two shots deep, now he’s crossin’ the line
Flops down hard like a f*ckin’ king
Ten minutes later — the smell do the thing

That ain’t no fart, that’s a f*ckin’ confession
Your couch just took a bowel-blast session
Lift the cushion? It’s a war crime scene
Fabric done — ain’t no Febreze clean

Sam Wham, sh*t legend in the town
From posh lounges to the hand-me-downs
Doesn’t matter — rich or poor
He’ll turn ya sofa into a biohazard floor

Leather, suede, recliner or stool
He’ll paint it brown like a goddamn fool
Sat on a bench — still left a mark
Now pigeons fly off before it gets dark

Tried to help, gave him wipes and prayers
He still blew up three f*ckin’ chairs
Now the rule’s clear in every house plan:
“No couch time for Sam Wham.”