Ballad of a Gravedigger
March 28, 2022 by Alana Green
This is a relief etching print on white fabric that shows large skeleton hypnotizing a group of skulls and a sitting skeleton; an electric street car, with skeletons as passengers, is in the background.

"Gran calavera eléctrica" (Grand electric skull) " by José Guadalupe Posada 1900-1913

Credit: Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division digital ID ppmsc.04468

There never was a meaner man 

Than that bastard John the Blue

Terror of my western town, 

For him there weren’t any taboos.


His lady love, poor woman, was rotting in the ground

A victim of his passions, a hammerhead, and dirt.

I dug her tomb myself, and wept with all the rest,

While that scaly Blue crook sat gin-bound, unhurt.


I waited with her, shovel in hand, for justice to be served

Ne’er a word or a whisper, but in her grave, I felt her stir.

The neighborhood fell dumb, for fear of his wrath

Save me and his patient woman, now angrier than e’er.


At night I heard her wailing a twisted, fractured song.

By light she held still, but by God, I could not stand

Her echo in my mind, nor the swagger of Blue’s gait. 

I knew all at once, the villain must be damned.


The moon was overhead and the night was alive,

I had my spade with me.

I dug and tossed, and that earth did rock -

Finally, the girl was free!


Her spine cracked a horrid noise,

Her mud-caked skin was burning.

With a boiling glare she stared at me,

And sent my stomach churning.


“Grave man,” she spat and rose from her ground,

“Fetch me a horse, a Colt, and some water -”

I felt no fear, and knew at once,

The Colt was for Blue’s slaughter.


Together we found that brute sitting in the street,

With whiskey on his breath.

She challenged him at once, 

“My love, duel me to the death.” 


Blue was aghast, but stood, hell-bent.

The tonnage of his sins is counted.

Ten paces they walked apart,

Naught but a crow had sounded.


I called out “Fire!” to greet the rising sun

And felt the bullets fly.

A justice in velocity,

And a death in reply.


Her aim was straight and true,

Despite her rotting, angry hand.

The bullet struck Blue’s breast,

He stumbled and fell, his soul confined to sands.


His blood wet the dusty road,

The girl stood over the gore.

She stroked his cheek and smiled sweet,

“My dear, love is what I’m made for.”




Alana Green is a junior year Illustration major at the School of Visual Arts. She is mostly interested in visual development and storyboarding for the animation industry, but in her spare time finds herself immersed in all forms of storytelling. In the future she hopes to either create or be involved in a great original story of her own.