A look of seriousness upon her face
Caused him to step back a pace
What could have caused that look
He wondered peering at her book
It was but a nursery rhyme and stories told
From yesteryear and the days of old
What whimsy had caught her in its grasp
That had her hands so tightly clasped
She looked upon my face and smiled
It’s nothing dear, old stories compiled
From years ago that certainly were not sweet
Intended to beguile, they struck me as offbeat
We’ll make our own to hum to our unborn child
Something appropriately sweet and mild
Full of laughter music and lighthearted song
To offset all the seriousness abundant and strong
Covert Novelist 