Steven Urquhart Bell


Pen and Drink

I used to be a happy drunk;
My life was quite exciting.
I tried to turn it into verse—
I couldn’t read my writing.

Brought to Book

It was the highlight of my week,
To see the famous poet speak.
I bought a book, and up I lined.
I said nice things. I got it signed.
I took it home. I read it through.
It made me laugh. It all rang true.
I lent it to a woman who
I thought might like the poems too.
Although I really must confess:
I did it hoping to impress.

She moved away. She left me spurned.
I never got my book returned.
She met a man. A proper writer.
I wished for plagues of boils to smite her.
I bet she gave my book to him
To show her mind was full of vim,
Like I’d attempted to impress her
In hopes of getting to undress her.
My plan backfired. It turned to farce—
As karma bit me in the arse.

Steven Urquhart Bell lives in Dundee, Scotland, where the North Sea air is good for his asthma: he hasn’t stopped wheezing since he arrived. He started writing seriously about ten years ago; when that didn’t work out, he started writing stupidly. He is a great believer in the dictum “Write what you know,” so he is not very prolific. His biggest role model is Dorothy Parker, but the one retro store in town rarely stocks 1920s cocktail dresses in his size.