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.