Meshigener

There was an omi down in Hackney, a stevedore, ran the Dalston Number Four Dock. He couldn't fly, see, cos he had something wrong with his aunt nells. His balance was all meshigener—you can't fly if you can't balance. You'd never be off your dish. But he had a daughter—loved her to the death—an' she could fly, and did, on the English Rose.

She swishes / through town, 'alf meshigener, and blows / lamors through the oxy at all / the passing trade.