A rose by any other name
Might well still smell as sweet,
But other ‘rose’ smells, all the same,
One knows the nose may greet.
When rows and rows of shacks there rose,
A smell, pure, would endure;
But think, what stink on that wind blows – ?
More like manure, for sure!
And then, the sort of roes one gets
All served up on a dish?
Assume that sets quite fishy, let’s:
These dregs are eggs of fish!
Suppose that when a boat one rows
No perfume do you get,
(Unless by those who went and chose
To let the smell be sweat.)
Then, other roes, Eurasian deer,
Might have some sort of smell;
‘d Appear I could not steer, I fear,
Close well enough to tell.