Son, go fetch the rifle now
I think there's something in the yard
I can see the herd is getting rattled
And the dogs are on their guard
We came to make a home here
But there's something in the trees
We bolt the door, chained the gates, secured the homestead
But it's never gonna leave
In the shackles of the night
There are lights up in the sky
Scratching at the doors
They are coming through the walls
Twenty feet above the ground
They move without a sound
Among the garbage cans
A curse upon the land
