My Grandma holds her accent in both fists like loaded pistols.
Between her lips and hips is the essence of Irish strength.
Her accent is like the Catholic and the Protestant at a 1700s dinner, Irish and English clashing together in a verbal battle, there is no telling my Grandma to be quiet. She doesn\'t know \"quiet\".
Her accent is a one size fits all,
\"How are you\" becomes \"How ar\' yah?\"
\"I\'m good\" becomes \"I\'m grand\", and outside friends meet an intriguing dialect they cannot understand.
At family gatherings, the accents are like vines, thick and deeply rooted.
She waited long enough to be able to speak only to be branded gypsy because of her birthplace.
She learned a lot by having grandchildren, her voice is like a lullaby in the night
She has a somewhat charm to her voice, making vulgar words like \"fuck\" and \"shit\" sound like punchlines.
Even though she has refrained from adopting the native English sound, her accent is like an umbilical chord, connecting her to the Emerald Isle.