Some opening verses.
Omen of omnishambles, sleet-darkened skies, all London under grey precipitation. Some Spring weather. Scarcely seasonal at all. The seasons have abandoned their procession, dive for extemporaneous cover under downpour. Tomorrow's sun will sizzle-dry these same sozzled pavements. "A situation of total disorder", per Wikipedia. The neologism is good to have in hand. Some end up soused in mysticism, full of ecstasy and fire, farraginously self-misled. Some might suppose the nation well-ensorcelled, dazzled by gleam in deathless mad Rasputin's wondrous side-eye. No salvage for those savaged by feral media claim slightly-mauled, frontrunning comeback tour. Bellum omnium contra omnes has its moments of breathless camaraderie, like arena bloodsport suspended for celebrity cameo, recaptioned image macro drawing egregious micropayments. I cannot say I saw the point of Dryden at nineteen. This likewise may elude you. In which case let it go. It may come to you anon. Dryden is funnier, or alleged to be. Don't judge me by my weakling prosody: everyone has their off-day, or decade, or ageless aeon.