I remember Joyce Grenfell doing this one, though not in the Spectator.
Here is my own rapid first draft --
On the last of our joint horticultural trips
I contracted, I'm sorry to tell,
both black spot and mildew plus rose-mite and thrips
and my stockings got laddered as well.
So its all your own fault that I'll not be your guest
and that Nature's once bounteous charm
I can now only view with reluctance, at best,
and a mounting degree of alarm.
For my mildew smells rank and my rose-mite now stings
and I finally see what is true --
that my garden is full of some unwelcome things,
the least welcome of which being you.
So your now-garden-phobic systemic-sprayed Maud
says that though you may temptingly coo
that the sweet "woodbine's spices are wafted abroad"
she wishes that you were there too.
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