Dearest Uri Gellar,
in the stainless steel dimension,
I submit my open letter
to implore your intervention.
My husband talks all year
about the cutting of our grass,
and though that is extreme
the worst is yet to pass:
Sunny days will dawn,
and that means he will go
to his beloved lawn
to mow and mow and mow.
I've marked out the perimeter
with shiny polished ladles,
I've caged that bloody lawnmower
in a slotted spatula cradle,
I wait patiently every night
for my husband to sleep sound,
then I put teaspoons on his eyes...
So I've prepared the ground.
I've become a nervous wreck,
so please send me a sign
that you'll keep the grass in check
or control my husband's mind.
While you're at it can I have
a new car and clearer skin,
a conservatory, a ball of cash
and a marble-counter kitchen.
My daughters said to ask you
for a pony and a pool,
they've spent their pocket money
on a set of silver spoons.
Theresa May is not receiving,
so why not focus on my plea?
Or my husband will be leaving
every Summer for Tel Aviv.
(Just when I thought Brexit couldn't get any stranger, Uri Gellar published this open letter to Theresa May. Uri, they are beyond help, focus on me instead!)