Imagine this poem by Longfellow spoken in a High Street London English accent, slowly.
“Momma, what does ‘horrid’ mean?”
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was . . . . . horrid.
Introducing my granddaughter, Eadie Eichholz, a Southern girl of considerable ability from Savannah, Georgia who it is a blessing to know and be related to and is never, ever horrid.