Git yer Hands Off Me Onion, Mate

“Shut it, Georgie.”

“Tell me why, an I might.”

“It’s me mum’s last onion, yeah, so shut it.”

Georgie let the lid of the bread box snap shut, “You that poor, you have an onion in a loaf bin?”

“I don’t see jewels bedazzling your neck.”

“No, but I have one on me pinky.” Wiggling a dis-jointed digit in the air, Pro whistled between the gap in his two front teeth, “See? Tis a diamond like no other.”

“A chip of glass, maybe.”

“Nay, friend, that’s fine pressed coal.”

“Riigghht.”

“You scoff, yet, here I am fondling your mum’s last onion. I smells a rotten deal.”

“Not rotten, fresh.”