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  • A market townland
    is where my intellect was sharpened

    A flat body of farmland
    fringed by Liverpool's urban cloak
    tinging the Lancashire twang

    which can thicken immediately;
    the voice tweaked for the speaker to sound
    like a spud tame lame brained div
    trained from birth to be a fully labotamised
    half cocked bog trotting dick head
    or a knob who sounds like a tit

    gifted at carrot plucking and
    swede, leek and beetroot munching
    in mud covered rust bucket caravans

    where dreams of getting bladdered
    in the plough, the Shoe, the Lion,
    the Queens or the Cricks
    play on a loop until pay day
    when wages are blown
    on ale and Ethel Austin wellies
    worn in the rakish manner
    of a hip Wigan pig shit shovellor
    out on the piss.

    But living in this linguistaically
    liminal hinterland isn't all spuds
    and dunderheads.
    The liquid nature of the lingo
    means scouse tones can also be
    freely spouted

    and the slow baked brain vacant
    bleat of a sheep fiddling field lover
    instantly switch to the city witted
    jive talk of a street slick
    trackie clad bling king giving it
    the big one about buying a knock
    off helicopter to go clubbing in
    London with.