Immature

Though I turned thirty a few weeks ago, I have reasons to believe my mind in many ways has not progressed beyond the 7th grade. Today, while studying some fine Medieval poetry (save your nerd alerts for when I'm listening to the Bee Gees people), I came across a series of "riddles" in The Exeter Book. Most are religious in nature, clever, pretty little pieces of literature. However, Riddle 44 had me snickering in my seat like an adolescant learning about intercourse for the first time.

Without further ado, Riddle 44.

A curious thing hangs by a man's thigh
under the lap of its lord. In its front it is pierced
it is stiff and hard, it has a good position
When the man lifts his own garment
above his knee, he intends to greet
with the head of his hanging object that familiar hole
which is the same length, and which he has often filled before

I am not making this up. I repeat, I am not making this up. See, the ol' Brits aren't as proper as they would lead us to believe.

Hey, you know who else liked this riddle? This guy.