I would rant and I’d rave
I’d bargain and scold,
Till I was blue in the face
And feeling quite old,
Just to get the girl reading
Something more than Teen People,
I’d gladly climb Everest
Or leap from a steeple.

I burned 17 packages
Of incense and sage,
I scouted the bookstores
For tomes for her age,
But what good would it do
If she never opened the book,
She would tell me, dear Father
I don’t like the look.

I loped to the library
And toddled to Tower,
I dashed down to Dalton's
Scanning books by the hour,
All with a longing
And a keen aspiration,
This daughter would read
For a minute's duration.

Alas and alack
All my efforts were nil,
Not a Shakespeare or Keats
Nay, a Jack or a Jill,
Until I admitted
My failure as Father,
All my running amuck
Was an embarrassing bother.

I was forced to succumb
To the wiles of her ways,
She could read fashion mags
To the end of her days,
If only this Father
Would pay the subscription,
Or this daughter would connive
A catatonic conniption.

This tale has an ending
And it came down to loyalty,
I pay her to read
So she's feeling like royalty,
I had to demonstrate
That I was loving, not mean,
I said, "Read in the car"
She replied, "Limousine".

How often it's told
In stories and lore,
That raising one's children
Is often a chore,
But the right application
Of smiles and charm,
Will insure that the Father
Will avoid lasting harm.