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Out on a stroll with my bitches this afternoon (not the stroll, not going back to jail), I spy a Walmart shopping cart just leaning all nonchalant against a tree. I want it. I gots to have it. I put Cricket and Squeak in it and start pushin’ down 1st Ave. to the crib. The cart is rattling, real real loud, on the sidewalk. Some old black men sitting on a front porch laugh and yell at me, but I don’t care. I turn the corner onto 26th and it’s all good. There’s another problem though. Across the street from my place is a car wash and a Jamaican restaurant. The brothers are sitting out in front of their shops. I am not pushing my cart down Central past all of them, so they can laugh at me, especially those Jamaican cats. “Every ting criss, batty boy” I can hear it already. I push my treasure to my apartment’s back alley, and drag it up three flights of outer stairs. It’s real, real heavy. Then it’s done, I’m safe, I have bettered myself, I’m richer! I have a Walmart shopping cart that I will put my underwear and socks and sex toys in…it’s probably a misdemeanor crime at least, huh? Ya’ll ain’t bout dis life