This is a particularly literary joke. Some will absolutely love it, and pretty much everyone else will hate it.
– – –
The new commander in Iraq hears that a Scottish regiment has a specialized field hospital that’s doing fantastic things with the troops. He wants to know what is so special about the place, so he arranges a tour.
When he gets to the ward, it’s full of patients with no obvious sign of injury or illness. He’s perplexed, so goes up to the first bed and greets the soldier there.
The patient replies:
“Fair fa your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin race,
Aboon them a ye take yer place,
Painch, tripe or thairm,
As langs my airm.”
The general is confused, so he just grins and moves on to the next patient.
That soldier responds:
“Some hae meat an canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat an we can eat,
So let the Lord be thankit.”
Even more confused, and his grin now rictus-like, the commander moves on to the next patient, who immediately begins to chant:
“Wee sleekit, cowerin, timorous beasty,
O the panic in thy breasty,
Thou needna start awa sae hastie,
Wi bickering brattle.”
Now seriously troubled, the general turns to the accompanying doctor and asks, “Is this a psychiatric ward?”
“No, not at all,” replies the doctor. “This is the Serious Burns unit.”
– – –
(If needed, the explanation.)