I met a Sigma from an antique land,
Who said—“a based and gronkless bowl of stone
Skibs in the backrooms. . . . Near it, right on brand,
Half sunk, a shattered rizzler lies, whose frown,
And creaséd drip, and cringe of cold command,
Tell that its streamer well those fashions read
Which yet survive, tagged on these sussy things,
The gyatt that mogged them, and the chat that fled;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
‘My name is Ozyfanumtax, Chad of Chads;
Look on my Ws, ye Redpilled, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Kek, bitchless and bare
Ohio’s level lands edge far away.”