Bo Burnham’s Poems from “Egghead”. Just a blog about Bo Burnham’s writing. Posts · Ask me anything. Archive · fitting bo burnham egghead you cant survive. Egghead: Or, You Can’t Survive on Ideas Alone [Bo Burnham] on * FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A strange and charming collection of. Egghead by Bo Burnham, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide.

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Bo Burnham’s Poems from “Egghead”.

Refresh and try again. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Preview — Egghead by Bo Burnham. Egghead Quotes Showing of You shouldn’t try so hard to be perfect.

Trust me, perfect should try to be you. I don’t know what they say. I don’t even know who they are. Who is this they? They seem pretty smug. They seem to think they know shit. Or is that not ironic? I read somewhere that, like, bl funny is, in some way, ironic. It had always clung to my feet, parting momentarily for a quick dive into the swimming pool.


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But never for five hours. I wanted something this morning. I may be stuck. What do you call it?

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. On a scale from on to ten, our Lord frwe totally eleven. Give us this day our daily bread, toasted close to dawn, and forgive us our trespasses as we shoot those who trespass on our lawn, and lead us not into temptation, such as pot or porno, but deliver us from evil if not delivery, then DiGiorno.

Fly high above this place.

Then fly off into space. Sully strains to say his phrases, sickened by the sounds he raises, strings of thoughts come out in knots, he solves his sentences like mazes. At night, he writes his thoughts instead and sighs as they steadily rush from his head.

Just instead of dinosaurs and spaceships, they imagine silence and the fred babysitter bent over the coffee table. They don’t even have bones! Are you afraid of ears too? Don’t move your lips. Don’t make a sound.

Listen without hearing anything. What a wonderfully weird thing, huh? Now, hear a whisper.

Egghead Quotes

Now, read this next line in your best crotchety- old man voice: Does your town have a post office? Whose voice was that? It sure wasn’t yours! How do you do that? It must’ve been magic. No way I left my keys in some fucking cranny. And had a Gypsy read my palm or maybe just my face. She said my heart was heavy and my head was stuffed with lies.


But things like that weren’t on my hands, they hid behind my eyes. The room is dull and dank and cold but at least I have a dgghead to hold. One day, a family of Circles moved in from the west. Wait, no, like an artichoke—with your layers arranged like snake scales, not stacked like coats of paint. Be sure to call in a year or so and tell me whether I was lifting heavy stones off your bunker door or plucking petals off your face.

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