His hands on my head

I'm scared that I can't relate
to those close to me.
Now, I just want to leave,
when we gather together.

People will line up in rows,
dress up in frowns.
They will always just look down--
down in a dirty, little hole.

His hands on my head,
I will just dread that
I never grew much taller than roof of my house.

There'll be a river of cry
flowing past you.
All my skin will turn blue.
You ought to hang me to dry.

His hands on my head,
his hands all over,
they cover my body but I’m much taller now.

His hands on my head.
His hands on my head.