Thither Spat James Joyce

agreed a rose by any other

name would smell as

sweet

porcelain pots peddled under
synonyms make no difference to the
rod and the cone

a vodkamartiniwithasliceoflemonpeelshakennotstirred ordered as
whatever else would land the bastard a
wanton blonde

and a cadbury square etched with a
hieroglyphic logo still melts its way past
your wagger

while quentin tarantino mischristened

eugene moses bartholomew would scarce upset his
b.o.

(call messrs. clemens and dodgson what you will, love,
they continue to
tickle)

as shall quantum electrodynamics known to our chums at the edge of andromeda as some other
fertilizer yet speak
gospel

but an onomatopoeia by any other
name...
now an onomatopoeia by any other
name doesn't sound a tenth as
onomatopoeiaesque,
does it, miss capulet?