rats' demise

As the howling winds of dark design
weave destruction's crooked spine,
the royal rats descend their mound
of profane waste and naked ground.
Assuming armored darkness, down
it hurls upon rats' scattering crowd,
weak and fettered, in each eye
gleams streaming liquid screaming "WHY?"
High upon ridges and deep in the cracks
insane force reigns blindly erasing tracks
of the conquered dead rats, sucking
every last snack nimbly out to the black,
perpetuating its next attack.