It’s Your Own Fault — a poem by D J Enright

Of course you can play with them.
There’s no harm in them.
They are only words.
Words alone are certain good, said someone.
And someone also said:
Unlike sticks and stones
Words will never break your bones.
(That is called a rhyme. A rhyme
Is nice to play with too from time to time.)

What? They have turned nasty?
They’ve clawed you and bitten you?
Dear me, there’s blood all over the place,
And broken bones.
They were perfectly tame when I left them.
Something they ate must have disagreed with them.
You mean you fed them on meaning?
No wonder then.