My good friend, Pavel Chichikov, is not only a very fine poet; he also has a healthy sense of humour. He forwarded this amusing scenario to me, which had been sent to him by a friend in Scotland. As a good example of “poetic humour”, I’d like to share it with visitors to this site:

An American politician is visiting an Edinburgh hospital. He enters a ward full of patients with no obvious sign of injury or illness, and greets one.

The patient replies:

“Fair fa your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin race,
Aboon them a ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe or thairm,
Weel  are ye worth o’ a grace,
As langs ma airm.”

He is confused, so he just grins and moves on to the next patient

The next patient 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 rictus-like, the American Politician moves to the
next patient, who begins to chant:

“Wee sleekit, cowerin’, rimorous beastie,
O what a panic’s in thy breastie,
Thou needna start awa sae hastie,
Wi’ bickerin’ brattle,
A wid be laith tae rin’ an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murderin’ prattle.”

Now seriously troubled, the American turns to the accompanying doctor and asks,
“Is this a psychiatric ward?’

“No,” replies the doctor, “This is the serious Burns unit.”