Ten Minutes

[Author's Note: I wrote this poem in ten minutes as part of my college Creative Writing class, and tried to make it as confusing as possible.]

As a needle throws steeds to stead or seeds to the wind (or wind) of the clock,
A voice drolls from the closet, a robed ward with a voice.
Freely a plague upon the teeth (avoid such a mishap) surely
Will put you in need of deconstructive registry.
‘Tis better to have lathered, rinsed and repeated and then to get
Dirty and stained, swimming amongst blackberry bushes,
Than to have never washed at all.
Mother tells me stuff and she sells me tough,
For cannibals don’t enjoy skin & bones (bins and stones),
Aside from to lick the marrow, and use the remainder as a spoonerism.

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