the Grateful Dead knows…

Hell’s bells are grim,

a reaper’s peal ,

until you add an “O”…

a bellowed hello,

isn’t mellow,

but beats the beast below.

And five is bland,

a numbered hand,

a bluff, a call, a draw…

so reach for sky ,

& slap it high,

instead—and say: hurrah.

Still water’s wet

–is way to get–

the chills with careless feet…

yes, when it crests,

and waves, it’s best,

a rippled, rolling greet.

While day is fine,

and night—divine–

a truth that’s understood…

you can bet,

it’s better yet,

combining time with: good.