Here's a fun party game for the mead-hall that gives you a sense of Anglo-Saxon hilarity. The translations are mine, so that the clunky literalism is preserved. This may be the general character of Anglo-Saxon humor, but fortunately it's not the height. (Note: the answers to the second and third below are not what you're being led to think.)

For a full site on this dubious literary genre, a medieval organization called the Kalamazoo Riddle Group has the Exeter Book's Anglo-Saxon Riddles. (Kalamazoo, Michigan, hosts the nation's big medieval convention every year.)

#25 Ic eom weorð werum, wide funden brungen of bearwum ond of burghleoþum of denum ond of durum. Dæges mec wægun feþre on lifte feredon mid liste under hrofes hleo. Hæleð mec siþþan baþedan in bydene. Nu ic eom bindere ond swingere sona weorpe esne to eorþan hwilum ealdne ceorl. Sona þæt onfindeð se þe mec fehð ongean ond wið maegenþisan minre genæsteð þæt he hrycge sceal hrusan secan gif he unrædes ær ne geswiceð strengo bistolen strong on spræce mægene binumen; nah his modes geweald fota ne folma. Frige hwæt ic hatte ðe on eor an swa esnas binde dole æfter dyntum be dæges leohte.

I am worthy to men, widely found brought from groves and from mountainslopes, from valleys and from hills. By day wings carried me in the air, travelled with skill under the roof's cover. A man then bathed me in a tub. Now I am a binder and scourge, soon throw a man to earth, sometimes an old churl. Soon he will find, he who struggles against me, and with violence contends with mine, that he on his back shall seek the earth, if he previously desists not from folly, deprived of strength, powerful in speech, deprived of might; he has not his mind's power in feet nor hands. Ask what I am called, who on earth binds such men, the foolish, from blows by day's light.

#23 Ic eom wunderlicu wiht wifum on hyhte neahbuendum nyt; nægum sceþþe burgsittendra nymthe bonan anum. Staþol min is steapheah stonde ic on bedde neoðan ruh nathwær. Neþeð hwilum ful cyrtenu ceorles dohtor modwlonc meowle þæt heo on mec gripe ræseð mec on reodne reafath min heafod fegeð mec on fæsten. Feleþ sona mines gemotes seo þe mec nearwað wif wundenlocc. Wæt bið þæt eage.

I am a wondrous creature, a joy to women, useful to neighbors; not any citizens do I injure, except my slayer. Very high is my foundation. I stand in a bed, hair underneath somewhere. Sometimes ventures a fully beautiful churl's daughter, licentious maid, that she grabs onto me, rushes me to the redness, ravages my head, fixes me in confinement. She soon feels my meeting, she who forced me in, the curly-haired woman. Wet is her eye.

#43 Ic on wincle gefrægn weaxan nathwæt þindan ond þunian þecene hebban on þæt banlease bryd grapode hygewlonc hondum hrægle theahte þrindende þing þeodnes dohtor.

I have learned that something grows in the corner, swells and expands, has a covering; on that boneless thing a woman grasps around with hands, with a garment the lord's daughter covered the swollen thing.