There's nothing like bedtime for reading a story

Of grand high hoo-hahs in all their glory

And creatures and castles, fantastical places,

Where there are no such things as familiar faces.

But mamas and papas, beware of the choice

The nature of book and the nurture of voice.

For the ears and the brains of the littlest Lou

Are absorbing much faster than you times two.

And there's far too much rubbish in books, on TV,

In pictures, on posters and movies to see.

Computers download by the click of a mouse

To nave little Nellie, alone in the house.

Big ones are busy and bustling around,

Quite happy when wee ones aren't making a sound.

It's not that we're nasty nor dish dirty looks

But we cannot be bothered for snooping in books.

"And really," some say, "it is great that they're reading!

They're getting much smarter, their brains fat from feeding,

And so they will grow up and do the world good

With the knowledge they've gained and the things understood."

But the problem with that line of rash, reckless reasoning

Is that stew by the pot-full can be botched by the seasoning.

Thus wee ones with heads full of thoughts by the truck-load

Can crash, burn and blow up along down the wrong road.

And the thoughts in their thinkers can blow up as well,

Wreckage so wicked that the TV will tell,

And more wide-eyed Susans and big-eared Ernies

Will see things and hear things that cause them to worry.

So at night when it's dark and the world's full of sleepers

Pajama-clad Patrick won't shut down his peepers

For the stories and pictures bombarding his head

Will keep him awake in his fluffy down bed.

Propped up on his knees by the glow of his night light

He'll crack open a book which we hope will be all right

And give him warm fuzzies for peaceful good dreams

Which will whisk him away from unsavory scenes.

But the message he hears in his pillow-propped head,

The last words of the day when he's tucked in to bed,

Are the words he'll remember first thing in the morning

A proverbial tidbit we wear as a warning.

So although we are busy, dreadfully so,

We must take a look-see at the books in a row

On the bookshelf of Bingham Bartholomew Blaze

Because a book's only good if we like what it says.

A message inspiring to believe in and hope for

And apply to one's life despite what's in store for

Is a gift worth the giving though it requires that we hover

To approve of the story beyond the front cover.

But what wouldn't we do for the wee ones we work for

And pray for and dote on and sweat, toil and save for?

A peek in the backpack, the bookshelf, the bed,

Can give peace of mind when we tuck them in bed.

And better yet, hold on! Could we do more?

What if we waited a while to snore,

Crawled into their beds and snuggled and hugged

And read in our own voices books that we've loved?

Words we grew up on or new books that take us

Back to our childhood of all precious places

And remind us how books are powerful sources

For growing up wee ones and setting life's courses.

For believing in something much greater than we are

And aspiring to help out the world near and far

Is proof in the pudding that hearts, not just heads,

Are shaped by the books that we read in our beds.