For the average English writing student, there are few things guaranteed to inspire a change… For the average English writing student, there are few things guaranteed to inspire a change of majors faster than reading the New York Times Bestseller list.

Two books continue to reign over the nightstands of America: “The Da Vinci Code,” which has had a longer hardback lifespan than most Galapagos turtles, and the latest installment in Tim LaHaye’s “Left Behind” series, which continues to make the strongest case in point for the secession of all blue states.

I was about to speed-dial my adviser last week when my eye drifted down the page and noticed a dramatic change had taken place in the children’s literature rankings. A new book called “Runny Babbitt” had rocketed to the top of the charts, and I remembered the author, Shel Silverstein, fondly.

Silverstein’s poetry was a staple of my childhood. His books are still among the most easily recognized in the world, and it’s no wonder, given how much time he invested in their production. He believed very literally in the experience of a book, of holding something solid in his hands and hearing the words read aloud. For that reason alone, he never allowed any of his works to be published in paperback.

My second grade teacher kept his entire collection lined up on the edge of her desk — a row of stark-white covers with crude, cartoonish depictions of children and animals scrawled above the titles in loopy, black script. On the back of each book, Silverstein posed on the ground in a relaxed position, a guitar always within reach. He was a tall, imposing guy with a thick, gray beard and an intense gaze, who could have played a villain in a low-budget thriller if he weren’t writing poems about starting a hugging war.

“Runny Babbitt” is the first collection to be published posthumously since Silverstein’s death in 1999. It’s written in his trademark style from page one, recounting the tales of a rabbit who speaks only in a series of topsy-turvy spoonerisms like this one:

“Runny Babbit lent to wunch

And heard the saitress way,

‘We have some lovely stabbit rew —

Our special for today.'”

In a model world, Silverstein’s books would be deductible from our income taxes, and passages from “Where The Sidewalk Ends” and “Falling Up” would be required reading in grade schools around the country.

On Tuesday, I checked out both of those collections from the Carnegie Library. In one corner of the room, a mother was reading to her daughter passages from Dr. Seuss, who in terms of verbal puns and wordplay may have been Silverstein’s only true rival.

But few people ever understood how many other sides there were to Silverstein. He was a literary jack-of-all-trades. In addition to his poetry, he co-wrote the song “A Boy Named Sue” for Johnny Cash. He also wrote a play, “Things Change,” with his good friend David Mamet, who upon his passing called Silverstein a “demigod.”

As I started rereading some of my favorite childhood passages, I was struck by their timelessness and the subtle craftsmanship that went into each one. Following a poem about a pair of dancing pants in “Where The Sidewalk Ends,” there is a poignant, very brief passage titled “I Won’t Hatch” about a defiant chicken who chooses to remain inside his shell where it is safe and warm rather than face the war, pollution and corruption that await him in the real world.

Silverstein served in the United States military in the 1950s, but his books envisioned a world without conflict, governed by peace and understanding. These are messages that are universal and true. And they deserve to be promoted to future generations of children, who lack a voice with even a semblance of the warmth, compassion and wit that made Silverstein so unique among his contemporaries.

Last week, a book worth celebrating reached the top of the charts for the first time in months.

This week, we should do our part to keep it there.

Michael Darling doesn’t apologize for being such so sappy and sentimental. Send feedback to [email protected] or wherever the sidewalk ends.