Nay, a tumblelog.

Swings by his thigh, a thing most magical!
Below the belt, beneath the folds
Of his clothes it hangs, a hole in its front end,
stiff-set and stout, it swivels about.
Levelling the head of this hanging tool, 
its wielder hoists his hem above his knee;
it is his will to fill a well-known hole
that it fits fully when at full length
He’s oft filled it before. Now he fills it again.

From the Exeter Book, probably written by Monks

ʎǝʞ ɐ :ɹǝʍsuɐ