Sam Kuban is a multi-instrumentalist and author best known for his book Beautiful Things and How to Ignore Them, a collection of illustrated humor/horror poetry that has been compared to the works of Edward Gorey and Lemony Snicket. He has recorded music based on the characters from his book and has released these recordings under the name Lead and Lye. Kuban has also recently created various film scores for projects that are to be released soon. While his passions don't necessarily match his day job, he still happily resides in Evansville, Indiana working with graphic and web design, and living with his wife, Kate Kuban.
Ms. Urnpulp
Sam Kuban
Not quite financially stable
Never was she ever able
To purchase a barn for the not quite bought horses
Her pleading through marriages led to divorces
And old age approached with a bang
Instead, she had spent all her savings
On curing acute canine cravings
She made herself settle for two large dog cages
And spent herself broke with the rest of her wages
On saddles they made for mustangs
Not quite the species equine
Though, she said, “They’d be just fine”
They’d learn to eat grass, and they’d learn to eat hay
She’d ride them as though they were steeds everyday
And she’d teach them to sleep standing up
Just not quite satisfied yet
With her status of not quite a vet
Practice makes perfect if praxis is prime
But the staircase of drudgery she’d never climb
And malpractice led to sick pups
One dark night after her stroll
Which resulted in neighborly toll
She set down her brandy and ran to the back
It sounded as though the dogs found a fine snack
And had given her quite the alert
Putrid and pungent, the scene
A pile of bones and protein
Finally fed, but still fed up were they
That no guilt was felt for her wrong, wicked ways
They made some more room for dessert
Shoes still encompassed the feet
She recognized in a heartbeat
Exactly who wore those archaic clodhoppers
She stepped further towards them but mad mutts had stopped her
Guts grimly growling for gore
Not quite sure what she should think
Her predicament’s binary stink
Would start with a lifetime of burying blame
That would end in equations of sins to her name
Her hands, now too red to ignore
Stumbling away from the pack
Slamming the door ’hind her back
Searching for anything long, sharp, and scary
To stab through the skins of her pet adversaries
“That geezer had shovels somewhere”
Darting across his vast land
Aiming was not quite so grand
Falling quite short of her unseemly goal
Face first down into a seven foot hole
Though spineless, it broke what was there
Mumbling her worthless last words
That no single person had heard
Maybe a plea for forgiveness or help
Her body lay twitching, she forced one last yelp
The long dirt nap then had commenced.