To be or skibidi—that is the top dog:  
Whether 'tis sigma to resist the doomscroll,  
The endless Skibidi reels and TikTok streams,
Or to oil up against a sea of memes,
And by griddying, end them. To log off—to touch grass—
No more; and by touch grass to say we end
The bedrotting, the digital brain fog,  
That our For You Page is heir to—‘tis a mogging
Devoutly to be wished. To log off—to touch grass—
To touch grass! Perchance to live! Ayo, there’s the sigma:
For in that mewing trend, what silence may come
When we yeet our phones to the unknown,  
Must give us pause. There’s the rizz, blud,  
That keeps us stuck in Ohio.

For who would bear the reels of baby Gronk,
The Skibidi toilets echoing through the emptiness,
The Kai Cenat streams at 3 a.m.,  
The tralalero tralala versus bombardiro crocodilo edits,
The constant “looking good fine shyt”

When he himself might mog his feed.
With a single uninstall? Who would fardels bear,
To cook and edge in endless goon,
But that the art of being out of touch—
The L bozo from whose feed no rizz returns—
Puzzles the will and makes us stay locked in,
Staring at tung tung tung tung sahur, biting the curb,
Wondering if the simps got a low taper fade.

Thus brainrot does make clowns of us all,  
And thus the Skibidi hue of thought  
Is gooned o’er with the devious lick of memes,
And enterprises of W intent
Turn sus and lose the name of purpose— 
Soft you now, the smirk of the rizzler in the grimace world—
Baddie, in thy glizzy,
Be all my yapping remembered.

- Je Rellora
(Illustration by Iya Maxine Linga/FEU Advocate)