The last word on pomegranates belongs, as did the first, to William Shakespeare:
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Romeo and Juliet, III, 5
Law: Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate.
You are a vagabond and no true traveler.