It certainly got a rise out of shiv.
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust
And with your blood and it I'll make a paste,
And of the paste a coffin I will rear
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam,
Like to the earth swallow her own increase.
"the women and children carried in the procession, at the end of their palm branches, a phallus made of bread, which they called undisguisedly a pinne, and which, having been blest by the priest, the women carefully preserved during the following year as an amulet. A similar practice existed at St. Jean-d'Angély, where small cakes, made in the form of the phallus, and named fateux, were carried in the procession of the Fête-Dieu, or Corpus Christi. Shortly before the time when Dulaure wrote, this practice was suppressed by a new sous-préfet, M. Maillard. The custom of making cakes in the form of the sexual members, male and female, dates from a remote antiquity ..."
What does the lovely flush in a beauty's cheek mean to a doctor but a "break" that ripples above some deadly disease? Are not all her visible charms sown thick with what are to him the signs and symbols of hidden decay?