A dash is so, well—dashing,
And parentheses nonpareil
For denoting a certain slyness
Or (oh, by the way) conspiratorially whispered air.
Connecting hyphens, handy-dandy,
Exclamation mark’s surprise!
Quotes—who’s talking now?
The lowly comma do not despise.
But for the coolest diacritical,
A mark most meet and sensible,
A boon to bard and technophile,
The apostrophe is king.
No other punctuation drawls
With an insouciant jot
That says, letters missing here.
A slight elision—not a lot.
But y’all will get it, of that I’m sure.
Whether clipped or slurred or swallowed,
In Yankee nasal or Deep South languor,
It gives jazz to our patois.
It’s the coolest diacritical,
It’s always meet and sensible,
A boon to bard and technophile,
The apostrophe is king.
But when it’s not contracting, the apostrophe’s exacting
To say just what is Fred’s and what is mine.
If possession is nine-tenths of the law,
The apostrophe is eight-point-nine.
But not for pronouns: its, ours, hers,
Nor plurals, saving your q’s and p’s.
An extra sibilance on names ending in s?
We may disagree, but nonetheless…
It’s the coolest diacritical,
A mark most meet and sensible,
A boon to bard and technophile,
T
he apostrophe is king.
Shaw, the skinflint, saw no need
To say he turned away.
Just drop it, in effect, he urged,
No hanging crook to clutter or delay.
Which might be fine but for such times
As when one must tell a tilt
From impossibility from nonsense.
Can you cant? You can’t. Certainly not without…
The coolest diacritical,
A mark most meet and sensible,
A boon to bard and technophile,
The apostrophe is king.
For other nations’ transcribed tongues
It serves much the same purpose.
The Arabs’ q it makes a cough
And often stops a glottis.
Around the globe it dazzles,
A tiny comet o’ertopping prose,
And plugs the gaps with tailed-dot moxie.
What does the job, do you suppose?
That coolest diacritical,
A mark most meet and sensible,
A boon to bard and technophile,
The hippest, tightest-lip-est,
Grinning knowing-estly fittest,
The apostrophe is king.