Non-Conanianish type, I'd Wager

If I had, say, an eight-year-old son,
he'd be afraid of tapeworms.

Until.

It would begin with a bag-o-treats
on beggar's night; he'd flop into the back seat
and pop a jawbreaker greedily into his face--
without having it checked.

"Stop!" I'd shout. "Do you want to get poisoned?"

Poisoned, poisoned . . . the words would echo
in his little head for days, perhaps even weeks.

People in his family would soon need to taste-test his food
before each meal.
(And he'd secretly have a point--where does it come from?)

News about China would be
abruptly turned off.

Bedtime rituals would contain a detox element
and frank discussions about common household cleaners.

Then, as climax to this chapter in his childhood,
his third grade teacher would introduce the class
to parasite/host relationships in science.

Hence, pale pictures of tapeworms.

Never fearing, ingeniously I would expand his knowledge
beyond the science books: tapeworms do indeed provide a service to their hosts.
They digest poisons. Particularly, poisonous jawbreakers.