In fiery dance, I sizzle and spin, I cradle the heat, where meals begin. Round and flat, I hold a plan, A kitchen star, yet not a man.

Every word exists in my name; entire works are written from me. I’m not specific to one language, I belong to them all; you just need time to understand me.

I dress up confusion in wit and in rhyme, I waste just enough of your perfectly good time. I grin when you’re certain you’ve cracked me in half, Then trip you one step from the final laugh. I never give answers, I merely whittle. What smirks while you think?

The first is a thing worn by coaches; it’s loud and shrill, used to start and stop a drill. The second is something that pushes air, usually through a small passageway. When combined, I draw attention to corporate misdeeds, hopeful for morality’s cause.

This is a thorny one. Pronounce it one way and it's a wine. Another way and it's handed to racers when they've won. Juliet described it's smell as sweet, almost divine.