Click 'n ListenA 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.
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