Correction Lyrics Season Ticket Holder by Rick Ross

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Lyrics

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)
n***a 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 n***as (n***as), the descent of a slave (Uh)
Motorcades, 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 n***as be hateful (Hate)
My momma still prayin' (Prayin'), so really I'm grateful
(Maybach Music)

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