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      Season Ticket Holder

      Season Ticket Holder

      Rick Ross

      Escuchar lo mejor de la musica de Rick Ross

      Rick Ross - Season Ticket Holder Música y Letra

      Hey, UD (Maybach Music)
      What's good, my boy?
      Mr. 3-0-5 (yes sir), Wade County
      Sixteen years later
      We done made history
      Three rings on our fingers
      Pockets gettin' fatter (uh)
      Nigga, we gettin' greater
      I'm the son of a saint (mm)
      Still considered a sinner (ha)
      Three rings on his finger (what?)
      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)
      Shorty checkin' my page (she what?)
      She follow my fashion (I'm clean)
      My life is a film and Gab's the lead (my first lady)
      She's so precious to me
      That's the air that I breathe (time to go)
      Time to fuel up the jet (where we goin'?)
      D. Wade jersey the drip (yup)
      Lamborghinis to match (woo)
      Count through G's on the strip (we out)
      These haters beneath us (uh-huh)
      As I'm lacin' my sneakers (you D. Wade?)
      Season sixteen (yeah)
      Lamborghinis and Neiman's
      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 accept no mistakes (nah)
      I'm talkin' major league, never minimum wage
      So proud to be niggas (niggas)
      The decent of a slave (uh)
      Motorcades, several Mercedes
      So get out my way
      Tangerines, deal in my slippers
      Still twistin' up dank (uh)
      Shed a tear for all my homies
      Black Bo and E. Gates (Black)
      Let's find a masseuse (uh)
      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 mama still prayin' (prayin')
      So really I'm grateful (Ella)
      (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-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 (ice)
      The models be nice (yeah)
      We call it run and shoot
      Any problems tonight (uh)
      Serve 'em like Boris Becker
      I want two hundred checkers
      So if they wanna slow our records
      It just won't affect us
      Take my boys to Mecca (boss)
      All my niggas blessed (Maybach Music)
      Smokin' with my dogs
      You can smell the relish
      They try to give me hell
      I'll bet I get to heaven (yeah)
      I stay away from twelve
      I'm such a gifted felon (ah)
      I'm seated on the floor (floor)
      She can see the loafers (hoo)
      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
      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 (Man how does it feel? you grew up here)
      Watchin' the sun rise
      Why don't you try? (How does it feel?)
      Ah-ha-ah-ha (Shit it feel great, baby)
      I never been to South Beach 'til I got the DMV
      I just want you to know that my boy
      Man listen, we put on for the city, sixteen years
      Five finals, three rings, we put those trophies over our head
      We put on for the
      Shit, man let me calm down man,
      Don't calm down ('fore I say something in this booth)
      Ride out my nigga, ride out, ride out ('fore I say something in this booth that)
      You the motherfuckin' Mr. 305 nigga, do what you do
      Nigga I got my own county (man)
      Listen the love of the city has been crazy man, I appreciate it all
      Thanks for giving me my own county
      I told these niggas man, you got the beach
      I gotta cross that bridge
      Niggas can't play with us man
      You can't do nothing around here boy
      Hey Ross, man ain't nothing but love baby
      Big homie, you know what is always
      Still with the shits three rings later though (ah-ha-ah-ha)

      Rick Ross - Season Ticket Holder Música y Letra

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