Finding My Voice

I’m starting to find my voice at “lass-t”
It isn’t “grarse”, it’s “grass”
I go for a “bath”, don’t soak in the “barth”
“Bootties” are for chips, not “batties”
And it’s a “baarm”, not a roll or anything else
Where I come from

I was born here, “oop” the hill in Everton
We moved down south when I was tiny
Look at the size of me now
“I never knew they piled it that high!”
Me grandad would say, with a twinkle in his eye
Knowing full well my six foot plus came directly from him

That’s six foot “plooss” not “plass”
Before anyone “assks” not “arsks”
It always sounded wrong to me, my Herts and Essex accent
But then so did most of the Scouse accents on telly
Harry Enfield and Chums didn’t really sound like me grandad
Nor any of the real Scousers I knew and “looved”

And now here I am, forty years later
Back, in Walton
Where I spent my early months on this Earth
Me “loovely North Loondon accent” fades
As I roar Everton on in Scouse, at the match
Not bothered any more about fitting in

Because I’m home.

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