They are foot churls: Club Falanga—
love beating where you ain’t got no shoe.
Yeah, they’re foot churls, walin’ on arches. . .
got sore soles when they are all through.

It’s a long cane hittin’ from a beater
with no leeway, thumping you so hard.
You were a bad boy, so you’re gettin’ some blisters.
Such a bad boy! Sore achin’ to start.

Damn! It’s feet, feet maulin’.

Balls feel on fire—not those in the valley
where gents bound when tumid, burgeoned hard!
But rather those raised when you stand on you tiptoes
(contusions get raised from belts of bastinadoes).
And now the foot churls home in, make those balls smart.

Damn! It’s feet, feet maulin’.

You’re gonna writhe now: oaths, curses callin’;
you’d better bite your tongue for a while.
Guys gonna feet-maul, clouting and thumpin’. . .
gonna grieve when you run a mile.

After feet, feet maulin’.