The Twelve Apostrophes Poem by Dennis N. O'Brien

There once were twelve apostrophes
Who'd served their English writers well,
But soon despite concerted pleas,
Their use had all but gone to hell.

The first to go was poor old you're,
Became just your, then out the door,
And closely followed by old it's,
Whose usefulness had had the fritz.

So it's was its, then we'd was wed,
And pretty soon poor that's was dead.
The next to go was faithful where's,
He's dead and buried - no one cares.

And number six was we're to were,
And that's to thats - another pair.
Then the apostrophe of who's,
Where he has gone there are no clues.

The ninth to go was good old you've,
He didn't fit the modern groove.
And didn't closely followed him,
Into the apostrophic bin.
(I made this up to put them in)

The last to go were can't and he's,
To cant and hes with just a squeeze.
Now of the twelve not one is left,
We're now apostrophe bereft.

Now I've misused apostrophes,
And missed them out on words like shes,
But it's a crime to let them drop,
Apostrocide has got to stop.
(OK, invented word - fair cop)

Now writing's going to the dogs,
Apostrophes popping their clogs;
These signs are there to show what's not,
They matter much more than a jot,
Let's hope that writers out there please,
Can resurrect apostrophes.