Rat Trap Rap, Part 2 of 2

There, parked in rows like overused commas or German prose or mothballed bombers lay ranks of rats as if on drill, but quite as dead as vaudeville. Someone had slit each ventral hide and pulled it back to peek inside. And there they lay, flat on their backs, guts on display, paws pinned by tacks. Ashamed, they were, like party-crashers, with gaping fur, like little flashers. Those organs, packed so coral-fine, would soon be hacked by Class B-9. Unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling, but woke in me a fellow-feeling. We’re all the same. We want to live. Why dish out blame? Why bring a sieve, sort sheep from goats, grandly decide who lives and dies? To my distress, those little guys with upturned throats and parted coats were nothing less than crucified.