Comes is a plastic sleeve with a fold out insert featuring recording photos and album credits.
Includes unlimited streaming of DRYLAND
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As the sun rose o'er the mossy cliff the Lord posed proud and stiff. Samphire filled the air. Wealth rained on every prayer.
The people came from the old Salt Maze. There was none to blame but the moss craze. They filled the fields with livestock. They flooded the alleys and sidewalks.
The bred goats and raised barns. The bore sons with their old charms. They hammered fence with no thought of the expense.
But deep in the wood the migrants were heard. The call of their song such evil had stirred. A once quite marsh now children explored. The stomps of their feet stuck a chord. The claws of their hands struck a wicked chord.
The Moss Witch asleep in the sludge. That old bitch awoke with a grudge. The Moss Witch, she smelled goat blood. That old bitch, covered in mud. The Moss Witch crawled up the hill. That old bitch, dressed to kill.
They had no idea just what they had done. An ignorant daughter. An innocent son. She slit the throat of every goat. She burned the crops and dried the moat. She scaled the walls and haunted one and all.
The Moss Lord had to act. His best knights swore a pact. Defend the land at every cost. Protect the people and guard the moss. This was his last decree:
"Every murdered goat goes to hell. Every lovely goat that you knew well. Bring me the Moss Witch's skull. Hack up her corpse until your blades are dull."
We claimed that Moss Witch's head. We sent that wench to the land of the dead.