The Comma

I’m stuck – poised over a poem with a comma. I put it in there, and jiggled it about … but ought I perhaps to take it right out? This mad, inky tadpole weakens my will. I’ve toyed with a colon: and tried a full stop. But each time this comma, vetoes the swap. It wriggles, and gives a sly wink from the page, then giggles because I’ve turned crimson with rage...

The Muses have, when I had need, offered me their favour,
Lending words and cunning rhyme, when my thoughts wanted savour.

Pensive Polyhymnia oft whispered her sweet songs,
Whilst Clio (the Proclaimer), was righting ancient wrongs.
From heavenly Urania, I learned of time and space;
Terpsichore, the dancer, brought movement, form and grace.
Calliope’s dulcet tones provided epic notes,
But Thalia, the cheerful, suggested comic quotes.
Euterpe, pleasure bringer, bestowed her lyric thrust,
And beautiful Erato, the purple prose of lust.
Last, singing Melpomene, clad in a tragic mask,
Gave freely, like her sisters; of she, I need but ask.

I’ve known each one, and owe them much for their insinuation,
But why – Oh, Heavens why – is there no muse of punctuation?

I need a little help … to lift the gloom in which I’m wallowing;
So please yourself – feel free: you may choose any of the following
; - ) : – ( … ? , ! ~ .