From Sand: 

Get them phalanges off my turf.

Fungus so rank my nostrils hurt.

Disgusting feet step over me bare,

With unclipped nails and wire-like hair.

You think I’m the problem? You’re all in my space.

Sand and those dogs just can’t interlace. 

If I saw your foul grimy toes in the sand, 

I’d file a report. Them digits I’d ban. 

These little piggies took a trip to the beach.

Is that a black wart or the world’s largest leech?

Call yourself smooth but all I see are bunions.

That skin’s peeling back like the layers of Shrek’s onion.

I know that it’s hot, but keep those claws away. 

Foot-finger catastrophes, take them off display.

Only a professional could free us of your stenches.

The lack of hygiene present puts my sniffer in the trenches.

For the love of god, but shoes on those bones.

That tiny toe is skewed, and the toenails are ingrown. 

Galumph a different route and my sanity you’ll save.

The day that I’ll find peace is when you’re one toe in the grave.

From Toes:

You’re a nuisance every day, it don’t matter the occasion,

Through the sky, in people’s eye, give corneal abrasion.

You’re burning and you’re scratching, you make everyone a grouch.

When anybody steps on you it’s ouchie ouchie ouch.

You ruin the experience of going to the beach.

I’ll get out of the water then you stick on like a leech.

You’re tiny and pathetic and you’re gone with just a draft.

You suffocate players in the game of Minecraft.

The sand’s a scary place! What’s buried feeling spooky?

Is it a stick? Is it a log? Or maybe it’s a dookie!

You get all over clothes leaving messy dusty tracks.

In Star Wars let’s just say that Anakin was speaking facts.

You’re a mess in people’s cars and you’re swept under the rug.

In the clutch of my ten toes I will crush you like a bug.

I hate to see your face oh your presence how I dread.

You come from giant rocks? More like they fill your head.

You have dollars, you have castles, but they’re all made out of sand!

You think my diss is brutal? Oh, just wait till you meet Hand.

By the time I finish clocking you and going on my rants,

You’ll have footprints on your face with some diss all in yo pants.