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.