Rick Ross – Season Ticket Holder Lyrics

Rick Ross – Season Ticket Holder Lyrics
[ft. Dwyane Wade]

Hey UD
What’s good my boy?
Mister 305 (Yessir)
Wade County
Sixteen years later
We done made history
Three rings on our fingers
Pockets gettin’ fatter (Uh)
Nigga we gettin’ bread

I’m the son of a saint, still considered a sinner (Ha)
Three rings on his finger, yeah, that boy was a winner (Winner)
Never known as a singer but this might be a single (Facts)
Always bet on your homies, then go buy the casino (Ballin’)
Ball is my passion, check my stats if they askin’ (Uh)
Shawty checkin’ my page, she follow my fashion (I’m clean)
My life is a film and Gab’s the lead
She’s so precious to me, as the air that I breathe
Time to fuel up the jet, D-Wade jersey the drip (Yeah)
Lamborghini’s to match, got Guccis on the strip (Oh yeah)

These haters beneath us as I’m lacin’ my sneakers (You dig?)
Season sixteen, Lamborghinis and Neimans

I’m shootin’ my shot (Shot)
Every car that I cop (Cop), every record I break (Break)
Every rock in my watch (Ah)
Every step that I take (Take)
Still won’t step no mistakes (No)
I’m talkin’ major league, never minimum wage
So proud to be niggas (Niggas), the descent of a slave (Uh)
Motorcase, silver Mercedes, so get out my way
Tangerines, still in my slippers, still twistin’ up dank
Shed a tear for all my homies, Black Bo and E. Gates
Let’s find a masseuse, then inspire the youth
If it’s best for the hood, then let’s call it a truce
My chains get tangled (Tangled), these niggas be hateful (Hate)
My momma still prayin’ (Prayin’), so really I’m grateful
(Maybach Music)

I’m still here, lookin’ through the window
Watchin’ the days go by
Watchin’ the sun rise, why don’t you try?
Ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha
I’m still here, lookin’ through the window
Watchin’ the days go by
Watchin’ the sun rise, why don’t you try?
Ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha

I promise to pray for a positive fate
Had the world in your palms, but he caught him a case
Shed a tear in the court, he got boxed in the crate

Then they shipped him up North, mom just sat in a daze
The bottles on ice, the models be nice (Yeah)
We call it running shoe, any problems deny
Serve him like Boris Becker, I want two hunnid checkers
So if they wanna slow our records, it just won’t effect us
Take my boys to Mecca (Boss), all my niggas blessed (Maybach Music)
Smokin’ with my dawgs, you can smell the relish
They try to give me Hell, I bet I get to Heaven
I stay away from twelve, I’m such a gifted felon
I’m seated on the floor (Floor)
She can see the loafers (Woo)
Showin’ love to the season ticket holders (Woo)
Showin’ love to the season ticket holders (Woo)
Showin’ love to the season ticket holders (Woo)

We do this for the city, U (What?)
The whole city

Man how does it feel, dawg?
You love doin’ this
How does it feel?
Shit it feel great, baby, I know [?] South Beach ’til I got [?]
I just want to know that my boy
Man listen, we put on for the city, sixteen years
Five finals, three rings, we put those trophies over here
We put on for the- shit, let me calm down
Man let me calm down, man fuck
Don’t calm down my nigga
You the mothafuckin’ Mr. 305, nigga, do what you do
Nigga I got my own county
Listen, the love of the city has been crazy, man, I appreciate it all
Thanks for giving my own county
I told these niggas man, you got a beast?
I gotta cross that bridge, nigga can’t play with us, man
Can’t do nothing ’round here
Hey Ross, man, ain’t nothin but love, baby
Big homie, you know what it is, always
Still with the shits, three rings later though